Busted: Confessions of an Accidental Player

by Antony John

  “Why do you hate him so much?”

  “Let’s just say I have my reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  Silence. I can hear Abby breathing heavily. “Freshman year, he asked me out.”

  “What?”

  “It was just his little joke. He had his entourage with him, and I knew he wasn’t serious. And I wouldn’t have dated him even if he had been. But I felt so … powerless, you know? Knowing I was about to become the butt of his joke and there was nothing I could do about it. If I said yes, he’d just laugh. If I said no, he’d say he wasn’t serious anyway. So I didn’t say anything. After a few seconds he smiled and told me not to stress about it, that he’d get over it soon. He looked so serious you’d almost believe he meant it, except that behind him all his cronies were snickering like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. The whole thing only lasted a moment, and I don’t think any of them ever thought about it again. But I’ve never forgotten.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Why do you think? Because it was humiliating.”

  “But that’s just Brandon being Brandon. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  More silence, and this time I can’t even hear her breathing. “Oh. I see.”

  “I’m not saying it was a nice thing to do, Abby—”

  “Please, Kevin,” she says suddenly, earnestly. “Please believe me. You don’t want to be like them.” She hesitates, swallows hard. “And I don’t want you to be like them.”

  She says it so kindly, so tenderly, that I feel grateful to her in spite of her earlier forecasts of dismemberment and castration.

  I walk over to my bedroom window and look out. I see Abby’s face framed by her bedroom window, her hair draped loosely over her shoulders, a halo glowing around her from the light behind. Her eyes appear moist, but it’s probably just a trick of the light. As I continue to gaze at her, it’s like I’m looking at an angel. And although I know she’s not everybody’s idea of beautiful, right now I can’t help feeling that she might be mine.

  11

  I avoid Ms. Kowalski’s gaze throughout English, which isn’t hard to do as I’m sitting next to Paige Tramell.

  Yes, Paige Tramell!

  I was waiting to see if I might get lucky with Morgan and Taylor again when Paige just plopped down next to me and began talking. She said how weird it was to have that professor come in yesterday, and how she’d never join a Women’s Studies class like some of the other girls, and if they weren’t all so freakin’ ugly they wouldn’t need feminism, and anyway the professor looked like a bag lady.

  We launch into an extended critique of Mom’s flowery dress, at which point Ms. K asks us to shut up or enjoy detention together. Paige just rolls her eyes at me and rubs my leg, and for the second time in two days I wonder if my hard-on will wear off before I have to stand up.

  At the end of class, Paige leans in and places a hand on my knee. “Look,” she says. “I understand if you’re not interested, but I’d really like to go on a date with you.”

  “ … ”

  “I said, I’d like to go on a date with you.”

  I’m so shocked that I can’t actually speak, which makes the conversation somewhat stilted.

  Paige waits a few seconds, then shakes her head mournfully. “I understand if you don’t find me attractive. I’d just really hoped that maybe you might find me … bearable,” she chokes.

  I’m still struggling to locate my vocal cords, but eventually I manage: “I do … find you bearable.”

  Bearable? Did I really just say that?

  “Oh, that’s such a relief.” She visibly relaxes. “Then let’s call it a date for this evening, okay?”

  “Uh … sure.” I nod vacantly. “Hold on, this evening?”

  “Yeah. ’Cause, you know, you might be busy after tonight.”

  I don’t know why she’d think that, but I’m not dumb enough to blow an opportunity like this. “Okay. Sure.”

  “Great. Let’s meet at El Pollo Loco at five, okay?”

  I’m about to agree, but Paige has already left the room.

  Before the Graduation Rituals meeting I make a quick pit stop in the boys’ bathroom to practice my reluctant-yet-decisive resignation speech. I know I told Brandon that I was committed, but I can’t take on Abby, Ms. K, and my mom—I’m simply not strong enough. Anyway, the guys will probably be pleased to get rid of me. I run through my spiel one more time, turning my palms up like a martyred saint and furrowing my eyebrows like I’m constipated. Now that I’ve nailed the right look, I’m ready.

  My confidence is short-lived. As I approach the meeting room, I feel my pulse quickening. Doing the right thing is okay in theory, but in practice I’m running the risk of pissing off Brookbank’s most volatile group, which seems like an oddly self-destructive course of action. To make matters worse, I notice that everybody else has already arrived. I take a deep breath, but before I’ve even walked through the door they all rise and applaud me.

  “Kev Mopsely, you dog,” barks Brandon. “Hooking up with Paige Tramell already!”

  “Well, I haven’t technically hooked up with her yet—”

  “She’s a total babe,” adds Ryan, completely ignoring my interruption. “I mean, she’s flat-chested as a ten-year-old boy, but man, that butt. And what about those lips.” Ryan performs the universal jerk-off sign.

  “But just remember,” Brandon reminds me, “it’s the numbers we’re after, not a grade for how good a kisser she is. Got it?”

  All eyes are on me, so I nod meekly.

  “Oh, and before you leave today,” Brandon says in a suddenly serious voice, “Chase has some numbers for you to add to the Book of Busts. Sounds like he was pretty busy this weekend, taking one for the team. Or was it two or three, Chase?”

  I almost wish I didn’t understand what he means by that, but as everyone else is laughing, I laugh too. By the time the laughter subsides, I realize that I haven’t yet resigned. And I know I can’t, either.

  Mom is still at work when I get home, so I have to call her to say I’m going out on a date. It makes me feel like I’m thirteen.

  “That’s great, honey.” Mom’s voice explodes across the line. “I’ve been hoping you two would finally get around to having a date.”

  Whoa, that was unexpected. “Who? Me and Paige?”

  “Who?”

  “Paige Tramell.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  Silence. “Oh, you’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “Yeah, well … she’s a, er, friend,” I mumble.

  “Yes, I get that.” Another pause. “So what’s she like? I mean, how do you know her? Is she a musician?”

  “No.”

  “Is she a good student?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Have I ever met her?”

  “No.”

  “Huh … I know it’s none of my business, honey, but exactly why are you going on a date with her?”

  How did informing my mom I’d be late home suddenly segue into the third degree about my love life?

  “It’s just a date, Mom. Okay? That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Another silence. “Hmmm. That’s a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because anytime you really like someone, a date means something,” explains Mom in her I’m-so-patient voice. “It means a whole lot, in fact.”

  “Geez. Why are you making this such a big deal?”

  “I’m not, honey, I’m not. I mean, sure, go out and have fun. You deserve it.”

  I picture her shaking her head disappointedly as she hangs up, then kneeling down and putting a hex on my date with Paige.

 
As if it needs one.

  12

  Paige is talking. A lot. And most of what spills out of her mouth is too inane for me to remember even a moment later. But I don’t care, because Paige is so hot she could recite the alphabet incorrectly and I’d still gaze at her like she’d won me over with a heartfelt Shakespearean sonnet.

  She’s wearing a white halter top, and her blond hair is down so that it cascades over her shoulders in loving waves. I want to touch her hair so badly. I also want to touch her tummy, and her face, and pretty much every other part of her. But I don’t tell her this because I don’t want her to run away.

  “So anyway,” Paige grinds on, “I told Caitlin to get a life. And I said that while she was at it she ought to realize that Goths wear black. I mean, what a total loser.”

  “She’s allergic to black clothes dye,” I explain, then remember that I’m in a purely observational role here.

  “Oh. How’d you know that?”

  “I play in a quartet with her.”

  Paige nods deeply. “Okay, that’s worth knowing. So you’re, like, friends with her?”

  The question seems loaded, so I hesitate. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Paige nods again. “Right. That’s worth knowing too.”

  She’s clearly eager to order some food, but it’s almost impossible to signal to a waiter since we’re stuck at the very back of the restaurant, in a secluded booth miles from the nearest diners. I was really bummed when Paige asked for this booth specifically, as it meant no one would see me with her, and part of the pleasure of having a date with someone as hot as Paige is being seen with her in public.

  “God, are we ever going to get served?” she moans. “Seriously, do you find the service in Mexican restaurants always sucks?”

  “No, I don’t,” I admit, chomping down on a tortilla chip loaded with salsa.

  She flinches as I eat, and it occurs to me that she hasn’t had any yet.

  “So Mexicans don’t bother you?” she asks, composing herself.

  “No, of course not.”

  “What about Asians?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, that’s useful to know.”

  A waiter appears before I have a chance to ask her how on earth that’s a useful piece of information. Paige orders a taco salad, and I get chicken in a mole sauce. As soon as the waiter leaves, I have visions of brownish gunk smeared all over my shirt and pants and wish I’d had the sense to order something more manageable.

  Paige shuffles in her seat across from me. “So, do you find it cute when girls act all shy and reserved, or do you prefer it when they just come on strong?”

  Hmmm, tricky one. With a prior sample size of zero, it’s hard for me to say. Except that I’m a guy, so it’s actually quite easy.

  “S-Strong. Definitely strong.”

  Paige narrows her eyes. “Good. Good to know. And do you prefer to start off with kissing, or … ” She trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

  “Um … kissing’s good.”

  She nods and brushes her hand across her bare tummy. “That’s good to know.”

  Again I’m intrigued by the number of things I say that are good to know. But I don’t spend much time contemplating the matter, since Paige stands up and comes over to my side of the booth.

  “So, do you like it when girls just take the initiative and … you know?”

  I’m about to die, but it’ll be a fantastic way to go.

  “Yeah … I like that.”

  Paige smiles. She leans in toward me and plants her lips gently on my cheek, then my other cheek, then the area just beside my mouth, and then …

  My lips. I’m not sure if she actually wants me to kiss her back, and when I do absolutely nothing for several seconds she stops and looks concerned.

  “Is it okay?”

  “Oh God, yes.”

  “Good to know.”

  She leans in again, and this time starts straight in on the lips. As she pushes gently against me I let my mouth open and my tongue—

  “Fuck!” she says, pulling back suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothing. It’s just … you need to go gently, you know? Let the kissing be all close-mouthed for a while, then move on. Got it?”

  I nod. Paige takes a deep breath, readies herself, then leans in again. This time we hang around the general vicinity of each other’s lips for a good long time, and I don’t open my mouth until she opens hers, and I don’t pop my tongue inside until her tongue gently finds mine, at which point I don’t hold anything back—

  “Shit!” exclaims Paige, then collects herself. “Kevin, listen … you have to be gentle with tongues. This isn’t about staking a claim to my mouth, it’s about slowly exploring the tip of my tongue. If that’s good, move on to another part of the tongue, but never use your own like a fucking Mack truck.”

  Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that our booth is separated from the rest of the diners.

  Paige takes another deep breath and leans forward again. We resume kissing from where we left off, and I do what she says and it’s actually really good, even though her mouth tastes like an ashtray. It’s almost like she’s done this a lot, because she certainly knows what she’s talking about. After a while we part naturally, and Paige is smiling.

  “Not bad, Kevin. You should definitely avoid the salsa in the future, but other than that there’s hope for you.”

  It’s kind of a backhanded compliment, but I don’t really care because I just French-kissed Paige Tramell, and this is definitely better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.

  Paige leans back against the booth cushions and runs her fingers all the way through her hair. When she reaches the tips she moves her hands to her breasts, then realizes what she’s done and looks embarrassed.

  “Oops. I just touched myself,” she giggles. “Hey, you’ll never believe what happened to me today.”

  “What?” I hope it has something to do with her touching her breasts.

  “I found out I have the same physical measurements as Jessica Alba. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence? Someone said they’d found out her measurements from some movie Web site, and when I went and looked, they were exactly the same.”

  “That’s cool,” I mumble, but all I can think about is how I’ve just managed to get Paige’s entry for the Book of Busts on our first date. And she doesn’t even realize what she’s told me.

  “Yeah, funny,” Paige says. She moves back to her side of the booth as the food arrives.

  The waiter has barely finished arranging the plates neatly before us when Paige asks to have hers boxed since she has cheerleading practice in half an hour.

  “You what?”

  “I have cheerleading practice. I told you.” She pauses. “Didn’t I tell you?” She looks genuinely horrified at having omitted this rather crucial detail. “I’m so sorry, Kevin. Now you must feel like this date has been the biggest waste of your time.”

  “But … you’ve still got a few minutes, haven’t you? I mean, if you don’t need to be there for half an hour.”

  “No, I really gotta go. I need to smoke three cigarettes before practice. I read that most supermodels smoke a pack a day to keep their weight down, so I’m trying to catch up.”

  “But you do cheerleading. Doesn’t that keep your weight down?”

  “Screw cheerleading. I’m only in it ’cause the baseball final will be televised, and that’s when I’ll be spotted by a talent agency.”

  Huh. Vacuous and conniving. Cool.

  “So what’s with the patch?” I ask, pointing to the square on her arm.

  Paige glances at it. “Oh, my dad got upset when he found out I smoke. I wear this so he knows I’m really trying to quit.” She doesn’t seem terribly bothere
d by the duplicity.

  The waiter reappears with Paige’s box. She conjures a sad face for me, bites her lip remorsefully, then leans over and plants another moist kiss on my lips. By the time she leaves, I almost don’t mind her going. I’ve got just about everything I could ever have hoped for from a first date.

  Even the check seems like a small price to pay for such wild success.

  13

  Luckily Mom stays late at work, so I don’t have to explain why I’m home so soon. Her absence also gives me a chance to use the computer to conduct some quick Web research.

  Measurements Jessica Alba.

  Google announces a number of useful hits, and moments later I’m jotting down incredibly private information about Jessica Alba. I don’t exactly know how the site got hold of the figures—I can’t imagine Jessica Alba volunteered them—but there they are, big and bold: 34B-24-34.

  Mom’s always telling me what a wonderful educational resource the Internet is, but until now I can’t say I believed her. I scan the list of other famous actresses whose figures are listed; there are even revealing photographs of some of them conveniently located just a click away.

  I click.

  This may be the most momentous evening of my life. I’m already imagining the next Rituals meeting, contemplating how I’ll present my findings to the guys. I even start to wonder if they’ll kneel down before me, which is probably why I don’t hear the door opening—

  “Hi, honey. How’d it go tonight?”

  I try to close the photograph as soon as it begins to emerge, but a little disk is floating around telling me the computer is occupied.

  “Honey?”

  “It w-was fine,” I say, or attempt to say; it comes out garbled on account of the fact that a naked woman is gradually being revealed on the computer screen.

  “So what exactly were you doing tonight?” asks—

  “Abby!” I gasp, spinning around. “What are you doing here?”