by Rob Thomas
“Can you believe Trim? I mean, I gotsta give it up to ’m. Man’s got his priorities straight,” Alex says.
Timm Trimble, our GQ split end, has just spent forty-three dollars purchasing the Madonna Territory.
“If you ask me, it’s a bargain. I mean, look at her,” I say.
Alex stares across at the stage, licks his lips, and speaks, “The good thing ’bout Trim gettin’ her is that, if he gets anything offa her, we’ll get to hear about it.”
“Yeah, and if anyone’s up to the job, it’s Trim.”
High fiveage.
“So when’re you gonna have Jenny stories to tell?”
I take a second or two deciding whether to answer the question or frog the shit outta Alex’s arm. I go ahead and answer. “Oh, prob’ly not ’til ’bout six or seven hours after the wedding ceremony.”
“You’re not throwin’ in the towel, are you?”
“Naw, man, I’m givin’ it a hundred and ten percent. She just thinks we should wait. I don’t know what for, though. I mean, she told me she loved me ’n’ all that.”
“Have you told her ’bout what you got waitin’ in the wings? Man, there’s plenty o’ girls here who’d dribble off those Bobbie Brooks,” Alex says. “There’s Tracy Wilcynski. Tina MacQuarie’s always rubbin’ on you in art. Plus, you already know Angie’d do you.”
“Yeah, but would you wanna hold hands with Angie? Walk class to class with her? She’s got a mouth on her worse than yours. Plus, she’d be willing to ‘do’ ’bout half the junior class.”
“Yeah, but who says you gotta make her your girlfriend? You don’t see Trim tyin’ himself down. He’s like a bee movin’ from flower to flower,” Alex says, grinning at his own poetic nature.
“Dude, I like havin’ a girlfriend. If you could ever con a girl into datin’ you, you might understand it—someone’s always waiting for you after the game, little notes and presents in your locker, ready-made plans on Saturday night. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”
“I guess,” Alex says, sounding unconvinced.
“So why ain’t you plowin’ through this infinite supply of available poontang?”
“’Cuz it ain’t necessarily available to a backup JV lineman driving a Nova. I have to live vicariously through you. And, real frankly, if you keep datin’ Jenny, I’m gonna have to see if Timm Trimble is interested in having a sidekick.”
“Give me at least one more day. Maybe I’ll be able to make some use of this slave thing,” I say casually, though I’ve been thinkin’ ’long the same lines. I mean, there’s plenty o’ girls here who’d be willing to go the extra mile to keep their boyfriend happy. I sure don’t want to wind up being the only virgin on the planet.
JENNY
10:17 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium
I feel so sorry for Annabella Guzaldo. Timm Trimble is like a walking IQ test for girls. Fail it and you find yourself in the backseat of his Mustang out at the end of some deserted road—or so I’ve heard. Sure, he’s beautiful, and he’s not stupid, but can you trust someone who always has a line ready?
“Jen, you sure must be in good shape.”
“Why’s that, Timm?”
“’Cuz of all that running through my dreams you been doin’.”
Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. And you know he’s sayin’ the same thing to everyone on the dance team.
I’ll say this for him, though, he’s observant. Last week, after I got my hair cut, Clint doesn’t notice all day, but the first time Timm sees me after Chem II, he’s like, “Sweet ’do, Jen. Let me know when you’re a single woman.” I’m halfway tempted to tell Clint—not because I can’t take care of myself—but because I think the posse thinks of “Trim” as some kind of legend.
Then again, maybe I should say something to Clint, like, “Imagine having Timm Trimble pay forty-three dollars for you.” And then kind of swoon. Nothing keeps Clint in line like a small dose of jealousy.
Jen, stop it. You’re sounding like all those girls you can’t stand.
So it’s finally my turn to be sold. Why are my palms sticky? They shouldn’t be. One of the best things about having a boyfriend is that you don’t have to sweat things like this. Before I had a boyfriend, I was always nervous. Worried that maybe the phone wouldn’t ring. Worried that I was acting too obvious or too shy in front of cute guys. Worried that I’d have nothing to do on weekends when all my friends were going out.
I try to smile as I walk toward the front of the stage. I wish this stupid skirt had pockets; I don’t know what to do with my hands. A flash goes off. Damien has captured me looking like a complete doofus.
“Time is running out to get yourself a slave!” Shawn announces. “Do I have an opening bid?”
Everyone in the crowd just chatters away with their friends. I don’t think anyone is even facing the stage, which is fine. I feel like intermission. Clint shouts his bid.
“Five dollars!”
“Five dollars is the bid,” Shawn says indifferently. Clint is standing up, scanning the crowd. He’s wearing this tight black T-shirt. The sleeves bunch up above his biceps, and you can see the outline of his chest even from here. His hair is still wet and sticking up at all these weird angles, because he drives to school with his Jeep top off. Still, he looks good. He looks scary. One of the things I like about Clint is that he doesn’t try too hard. Half the guys here use hair spray and spend more time in front of the mirror than I do. No one else bids, and I’m about to be sold for the absolute minimum. Of course no one’s going to bid against Clint. He should have known that and at least started at ten dollars. A lot of people have gone for ten. Not Jenny Robinson, you can get her cheap.
“Ten dollars!” The voice comes from right below me. It’s Damien.
CLINT
10:19 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium
“Oooh, burn,” says Alex.
“What the hell’s he doing?” I ask out loud, though I’m really talking to myself.
Alex answers anyway. “Looks like he’s makin’ a play for Jen.”
“Naw, he’s just dickin’ me … bein’ funny,” I say. I kinda laugh, then I shout.
“Eleven dollars.”
And Damien bids fifteen. Now my homie ain’t so funny. Now he’s makin’ me look bad, and I can’t understand what he’s out to prove. People round me have started payin’ attention, and I can hear ’em whisperin’. I can only imagine what they’re sayin’. If Damien’s not careful he’s gonna make people think we’ve got some weird love triangle goin’. Peculiar thing is, Damien’s not even lookin’ up here. If he was fuckin’ with me, he oughtta be laughin’ and pointin’ at me.
Mom gave me an extra twenty this mornin’ for Slave Day, but I didn’t think I was gonna have to spend it all. I didn’t ’spect anyone’d be biddin’ against me. What the hell. I’ll put an end to this now.
“Twenty dollars!”
JENNY
10:20 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium
I look down at Damien. He’s staring at me, and I can tell he’s looking for some kind of sign. It’s just like one of those cartoons where you see the dollar signs in the character’s eyes—except with Damien, they’re question marks. I want to disappear. I close my eyes and try to shake my head no as inconspicuously as possible. What is Damien thinking?
“Twenty dollars going once,” I hear.
When Damien bid ten dollars, I was honestly thankful. I figured he was doing it so that Clint would have to bid higher, so I would sell for more than the minimum bid. Damien’s just that considerate. Besides, I’ve always been closer to Damien than most girls are with their boyfriend’s best friend. We’ve never fought for Clint’s attention or anything like that.
“Twenty dollars going twice.”
But when he bid fifteen, everything got freaky. You could hear the crowd start murmuring. Clint must be hyperventilating. I stare out at the bleachers and let my eyes lose their focus. I don’t want to look directly at anyone. I’ve got the feeling tha
t I’ve still got this smile frozen on my face. What a ditz.
“Sold!” Shawn finally says.
TIFFANY
10:24 A.M. Assembly period, parking lot
Here it is, just where I left it: the pride of the hill country—Robert E. Lee High School, built in 1947, renovated in ’51, ’69, ’83 and, of course, last year. It’s not like I’m an architecture groupie. Everyone here knows the history of the school. It’s almost impossible not to because they haven’t torn anything down. The original building is now the English wing. There’s no air-conditioning, and the classrooms have got these giant paned windows and flash antique-looking radiators. In the new science wing, there’re no windows—just skylights that you can’t see out, lab tables you can’t write on, and central air that keeps the rooms at a perpetual nipple hard-on frigidity. Daddy opposed the bond election last year that would have paid for a whole new school. “Fiscal responsibility,” he said, but come on. He just wanted his alma mater preserved like a fucking shrine.
When they built the new science wing, they also purged a slew of parking spaces. Consequently, I’m parking the Probe (Why couldn’t Daddy’ve been a Lexus dealer instead of Ford) out here in BFE by all the lowriders who don’t like anyone parking on either side of them. I’ve got the only horn on the row that doesn’t play “La Cucaracha.” I’m running pretty half past for the auction, but handcuff me to the headboard if you think I’m gonna sprint up to the school like some eager freshman. I pull down the sun visor and check my lipstick in the mirror. It’s a bit chilly this A.M. for the halter top I’m wearing. I can feel my stomach bumping, but I paid hard-begged lucre for this tan. I’m gonna get some mileage out of it. All I’ve got with me is a tiny purse containing real ID, fake ID, dinero, pharmaceuticals, car keys. You should check out some of these librarian chicks walking around here with Hefty bags. What the hell do they keep in there? It can’t always be that time of the month. Sure, I’ve got one big purse, but it’s for sneaking bottles into football games and movies.
So I’ve got the stroll working. Suzi says it’s artistry, walking with as much attitude as I do.
I figure, if you got it …
As I’m walking, I just imagine I’m the tide and each hip is a wave slapping against the shore. Don’t try this at home without first consulting a chiropractor, a priest, and the local obscenity laws.
I roll into the gym and my first thought is that someone died—not a creature is stirring. Everyone has these real glazed-over looks on their faces. I see Suzi and Rainy looking as comatose as everyone else. I go sit by them anyway.
“Where’s the beef?” I ask, noticing the scrawnster occupying center stage.
“Done been sold off,” answers Rainy. “You missed all the prime cuts. That scrap’s all that’s left.”
“What!?” I say, horrified.
“He’s the last one,” Rainy says.
BRENDAN
10:27 A.M. Assembly period, gymnasium
I’m up, and all I can think of is Kyle Gallon, my best friend through eighth grade. His family moved to Dallas the summer before our freshman year, and I’ve only seen him twice since then. Kyle was smarter than anyone I know, even outwhizzed Laurence Davenport. He wasn’t great-looking or a jock, but he was cool and everyone knew it. He always knew the right thing to say. In sixth grade he started going with Shanie Fauver, the Shanie Fauver. I’m not sure if they ever kissed, but they played handsy-holdsy between classes in front of everybody. Anyway, when Kyle was around I never felt stupid. I never felt this uncool.
So, anyway, in seventh grade Kyle’s face breaks out really bad. I mean really bad. Some of the guys—even some of the girls—started calling him “Helen” because of his sameality with Mount Saint Helens. But here’s the thing: Kyle didn’t change at all. He didn’t lose an epsilon of confidence—even after Shanie zeroed him. Right before Christmas, our homeroom had a gag-gift exchange and some Hat gave Kyle a bottle of Oxy 10. Everyone cracked up when he opened the package. Kyle didn’t get embarrassed at all. He opened the bottle and sniffed the cap as if it was the cork to a wine bottle, then pretended to take a sip, delicately smacking his pursed lips like he was savoring some primo vintage Chardonnay.
“Mmm … a rather thin and herbaceous nose, but enchanting notes of pear and melon on the finish. This is a revelation!” he gushed in this cheesy French accent. Our classmates either laughed with the joke or shut up because they didn’t get it. The next day, Kyle put a bottle of that lice-killing shampoo on the Hat’s desk with a big bow on top of it. Our homeroom thought that was even more hilarious. The Hat went ballistic, started threatening Kyle. To this day people still call him Rid.
See, if Kyle were here, I wouldn’t have any frettage.
But he’s not. So I do. Chiefly: Which exit do I flee through when no one bids on me?
“And now for our last slave. This is your final chance to be a slave owner for the day,” Shawn Greeley tells the crowd. You can hear the student body collectively sigh. They’re bored with the auction by now—not a good sign. “Who will open the bidding for” (Shawn checks his clipboard) “Brendan Young?”
I spot Deena. She’s digging through her purse! She’s probably seeing if she’s got enough money! Have enough … have enough … have enough … Wait, what’s that she’s taking out? A comb? She turns and says something to that owl-eyed friend of hers. She’s laughing about something, but it’s not me. She’s not even paying attention, which is good because …
“One hundred dollars!”
I’m sure it’s a joke, but no one’s laughing. They’re staring at a spot over by the gym doors. I know it’s where the voice came from, but something’s not right. Tiffany Delvoe is standing in that spot. Tiffany Delvoe, who I’ve never spoken to before in my life. Tiffany Delvoe, the girl—no, the woman—who Lloyd’s got a picture of taped up in his locker. Five feet eleven inches of tan skin, straight butt-length brunet hair, gravity-defying breastal appendages, and a walk that Lloyd calls the Sexual Preference Checker.
“If you don’t get a bit stiff watching that,” Lloyd has said on more than one occasion, “you can pretty much bet on being a charter member of the RuPaul fan club.”
“Did you say a hundred dollars, Tiffany?” Shawn says into the microphone.
She shouts back, “Yeah.” Shawn looks back at me, but I’m spying on Deena. She and Owl Eyes are pointing over at Tiffany, their mouths wide open. Virtual cool. Then, in what I think is the funniest part of the day, Shawn reopens the bidding.
“Do I hear a hundred and five?”
I turn and face Annabella Guzaldo. “You only brought in forty-three dollars?”
KEENE
10:32 A.M. Passing period, gymnasium
So what do I do now? A couple people from Mrs. Paulson’s class walk up to me and say, “Good plan,” after the assembly breaks up, but to call this a plan really stretches the definition of the word. If I had a plan, it’s over now. I guess that’s the reason I hesitate before I walk over to the line where we’re supposed to pay for our slaves. I wonder if I’ve already made my point. Maybe Shawn understands now that slaves didn’t get to walk around all day bagging on some superfly master—slaves had to go with whoever bought them.
Playing this out … maybe it’s a bad idea.
The student council members have gathered in a little cluster near the auctioning podium on the stage. I look for Shawn, but it takes me a minute to find him because he’s off to the side. As usual, he’s laughing. The two ladies he’s talking to are laughing as well, and they keep glancing over here. Must be laughing at me.
“Who’s your slave?”
I look down and find that I’m at the front of the line.
“What?”
“Who’s your slave?” repeats the councilhead holding a clipboard. “Who did you buy?”
I feel for the wad of bills in my pocket, knowing I haven’t proven a thing except that I’m able to throw away Laurence’s money.
“Uh, Shawn Greeley.”<
br />
The collector scans his clipboard and says it’ll be thirty dollars. Reluctantly I pull the cash from my pocket and hand it to him.
“All right,” he says, “he’s all yours.”
“Joy.”
MR. TWILLEY
10:34 A.M. Passing period, gymnasium
The remaining tedium of the assembly allowed me plenty of time to collect my thoughts and plot a course of action. I must have been three sheets to the wind when I agreed to participate in this event. Well, I’ve certainly learned my lesson and, as Melville says, “woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it.”
I remove a five-dollar bill and approach Denhart once the assembly has run its course. A knot of students are gathered around him, awaiting instructions. I hesitate in hopes that they will disperse, but none do, so I edge my way in.
“Denhart, may I have a word with you?”
“Certainly, Marcus.”
I glance about. The students have paused, but their attention is now focused on me.
“I was thinking it might be better for all concerned if I just make a donation—one substantially larger than the bid for me”—I hold up the bill—“rather than play this out over the course of the day. It was obvious to all those who attended that I wasn’t in high demand as a slave, anyway.”
The students switch their attention to Denhart, who fidgets a bit. I don’t understand his reluctance. My solution would bring in more money.
“Marcus, I suppose it would be fine with me,” he says, looking around at the assembled children, “if Tommy Parks will agree to it as well.”
“Surely you’re not saying that I have to get permission from Mr. Parks. You may not realize this, but,” I whisper this next part to Denhart, “he failed my class last year.” I speak out loud again. “This is simply his way of getting even.”