by Antony John
Abby points at the monitor. “What’s that?”
I look back at the screen, but thankfully the computer has decided it actually has time to close the window after all. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead.
Abby shrugs. “So you were going to tell me what you were doing tonight.”
I look at Mom. “I, er, had a meeting.”
Mom raises her eyebrows but leaves without contradicting me. Abby watches her go, then closes the door softly.
“So listen, I just wanted to come around to ask, well, you know … how it went.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on. I know who you met with today.”
I swallow hard. “You do?”
“Yeah, I do … Don’t act so surprised. It’s not exactly a secret.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, you twit, it isn’t. So, go on, did you do it?”
“Did I what!?” I can feel myself go bright red, and suddenly I really don’t want to be here having this conversation with Abby.
“Did you, you know … do it?” repeats Abby without a hint of embarrassment.
“Um, I … well, I really don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
Abby looks flabbergasted, like I’ve just landed a sucker punch in her gut.
“Okay, okay. No, I didn’t do it,” I assure her.
“What?” Now she looks even more horrified, which is really freaky. “Why not? Weren’t you up to it? Or, I know,” she adds testily, “maybe you just don’t have the balls for it.”
That’s the last straw. “If you must know, yes, I do have the balls for it, but it’s up to me whether or not I decide to do it, and it’s certainly got nothing to do with you.”
Abby cocks her head, stares at me with narrowed eyes. “Okay, I get it,” she says softly, her head nodding imperceptibly. “I guess I’ll go now.” She turns to leave, then pauses before the door. “Although, I want you to know that I only came here because I care about you. And don’t think I don’t know how difficult it must be to stand up to Brandon and his pathetic troop of losers, but I really thought you’d do it. After what I told you last night, I just figured … ” She shakes her head. “But you didn’t do it … I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.”
Oh crap. As she hurries away, my instinct is to chase after her and tell her I’m sorry and it was all a misunderstanding. But I can’t. Because although I am sorry, I’m also giddy with relief that she was talking about my meeting with Brandon instead of my date with Paige.
And then it occurs to me that even if I had realized she was talking about Brandon, my answers would probably have been the same—because I was too cowardly to leave the group, and I’m still too ashamed to admit it to Abby.
And that doesn’t feel so cool.
14
A cell phone goes off at the beginning of lunch break and performs several rounds of the can-can before I realize it’s my phone. I pull it out, flip open the screen, and check the message: QUAD NOW. BT.
Ordinarily I’d wonder how Brandon got my cell number, or why we’d need another meeting already, but right now I’m far more preoccupied with the prospect of venturing onto the Quad—the centerpiece of Brookbank High. Brandon knows perfectly well that the pristine grassy square is way too important to be sullied by mere students, even though we can view it enviously from most of the corridors. When we arrived at Brookbank we were told that setting foot on the Quad would result in detention, suspension, or whatever punishment Principal Jefferies saw fit to impose. As a result, it has achieved almost mythical status, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or the grassy knoll. Everyone wants to touch the Quad.
Everyone, that is, except me.
I trudge down the main staircase and peer through the double doors that lead to the Quad. It’s already filling up with the imposing physiques of the Ritualites. I swallow hard, push open the door, and shuffle through.
“Mopsely!” yells Brandon, who clearly hasn’t picked up on the subtleties of my covert entry. He punches my arm, making perfect contact with the bruise he left there last time.
“Brandon, the, um, Quad. You know, it’s—”
“It’s fine,” says Brandon. “Trust me, everything’s cool.”
He points to an upper floor window where a group of freshmen boys angles for his attention. I wave at them, and they wave back like they recognize me, or even better, like they think I’m someone. Oddly enough it doesn’t even surprise me that much anymore.
Truth is, ever since my induction into Brandon’s posse I feel like I’ve been given an unlimited-popularity pass. For years I lived below the poverty line of coolness, in the underworld of geeks and losers. I was tolerated by my fellow dorky cohabitants, but totally dissed by the trendy, beautiful people, who treated me like the excrement sticking to the soles of their personalized designer sneakers. But now the school’s royalty pay homage with a discreet nod or grunt, and I can feel my stock rising. The geeks still high-five me because they haven’t realized I’m no longer one of them, but that’s okay—I’m generous enough to find room for them too.
“Nice to have budding disciples, isn’t it?” says Brandon, pumping his fist in the direction of the freshmen, who seem to have nothing better to do than watch us.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It really is.”
The friendly chatter around us quiets momentarily, and I turn to see Jefferies standing before us. I duck behind Brandon.
“Gentlemen, I think you know the rules,” says Jefferies gruffly.
Brandon steps forward and shakes Jefferies’ hand confidently. “Of course, Principal Jefferies. It’s just that I felt a meeting to discuss the importance of school pride and history really ought to be conducted in the Quad.”
“School pride?”
“Absolutely,” says Brandon. “And let’s be honest, who epitomizes the Brookbank spirit better than the baseball team, whose successes cast such a positive glow on our beautiful school.”
Jefferies nods approvingly. “No one can disagree with that … Well, now, you just keep your meeting orderly and short, okay?”
“You have my word,” Brandon promises the fast-disappearing Jefferies.
Then Brandon spins around and stares at us, his easygoing demeanor replaced by something rather more disgruntled.
“So you’re probably all wondering why I told you to meet here today. Well, it’s like I told Jefferies: you need a lesson in school spirit.”
He paces back and forth making eye contact with every guy; he’ll make a great coach one day.
“To be blunt, Zach says the Strategic Graffiti Campaign isn’t going well. Now, I know you’re all busy, and I’m willing to cut you some slack for that, but we’re a team and we need to work together. I’d like to remind you that when we meet, we’re only a small part of something much greater than ourselves. We’re continuing traditions that link us to more than four decades of Brookbank seniors. And included in those classes were future politicians, lawyers, and stockbrokers—esteemed men who understood the value of teamwork.”
Brandon stops moving and nods paternally at Zach.
“Yeah,” grunts Zach, fidgeting like he’s afraid of forgetting what he’s supposed to say. “So, only a few of the girls’ bathroom stalls have been graffitied, and most of it’s kind of lame.” He looks genuinely disappointed. “I mean, this is pretty simple shit, guys. You check that the restrooms aren’t in use, then walk in, pick a stall, and write something crappy about some chick who had it coming. Like, am I the only one here who remembers that time freshman year when Sarah Howard got her first period during Physics and totally freaked out? That’s the kind of stuff we’ve got to come up with. And if you haven’t got the balls to write in permanent marker—yeah, I’m talking to you, Caleb—then don’t bother doing it at al
l. It’s not funny if they can erase it right away. Got it?”
Everyone nods but the Quad remains silent. I can’t tell whether it’s because the guys feel chastened or because they’re utterly appalled by what they’ve just heard.
“Um, Zach,” I mumble. “Isn’t that kind of mean?”
Everyone laughs derisively, but Brandon quiets them with a raised hand.
“No, no. It’s a fair question. Look,” he says, giving me his undivided attention, “it’d be mean if the girls weren’t in on the joke, but they like it too. Seriously, just ask Paige or Morgan or Taylor … any of the hot girls. They think the Rituals are kind of funny.”
“Um, okay.”
“Good, I’m glad we cleared that up. Now onto the Book of Busts. What’s new?”
My hands are trembling as I pull out the book and point to Paige Tramell’s senior portrait. Everyone leans forward, squinting to read the numbers.
There’s a deathly silence. No one moves. All eyes are trained on the book, and the set of figures beneath the photo.
“Mopsely, you are … THE MAN,” yells Brandon, high-fiving me. Actually it’s not quite a high-five—more like a creepy Masonic handshake—but I can tell it’s a sign of respect.
Just as I feel myself swept along in the excitement, Zach snorts loudly.
“You’re kidding, right? 34B? In her dreams, maybe. Paige wouldn’t even scrape a 32A without some serious padding.” Zach looks up as Brandon shoots him a disapproving stare. “Come on, Brandon. These numbers might work for someone who actually has tits, but they sure don’t work for Paige.”
Brandon scratches his chin thoughtfully. “How did you get these numbers, Kev?”
I close the book and place it gently back in my bag. “Well, at the date yesterday I did a little behind-the-scenes research.”
Zach snorts. “Your research sucks, you loser.”
I can feel myself shrinking back against the wall. I’m afraid that Zach is going to ask me to describe my research, and I’m not sure my answer will impress anyone. But then, to my surprise, Brandon intervenes:
“Hey, Zach, at least he’s out there doing something, taking one for the team. I don’t see you doing much.”
Zach looks mortified. “Come on, Brandon. How can you let him compile the book when he thinks Paige scores a 34B? With the right surgery she might make it, but for now her tits are smaller than your pecs.”
Brandon clearly appreciates the comparison.
“Then let’s edit the numbers,” I say, hurriedly redirecting the conversation. “There’s no reason why other people can’t have input. I say 34B, Zach says 32A, so let’s settle on 32B, okay?”
I don’t suppose for a moment that it’ll fly, but then Brandon slaps me on the back and says yeah, and just like that the matter is settled.
“You’re kidding,” Zach fumes, his jaw muscles flexing. “This is a joke, Brandon. He’s screwing up the book—”
“Lighten up, Zach.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “God, you’re getting to be a real bore. I guess Taylor’s holding out on you these days, huh?”
Zach is about to say something when Brandon flips him the bird. And just like that the discussion is over.
“All right, guys, that’ll do it for now,” says Brandon. “But before you go, make sure you see Ryan. He’s got your fake IDs.”
A cheer fills the Quad. Everyone pumps fists and bumps chests even more than usual. I keep a safe distance.
“Why do we need fake IDs?” I ask.
The cheering ceases. Fists stop mid-pump.
“He’s got to go, Brandon,” Zach says through clenched teeth. “The guy’s a total dork.”
“He’s just kidding, Zach.” Brandon looks at me, adding expectantly, “Unless he has another way to get hold of booze for prom.”
“Um, not exactly.” I swallow hard. “But what if we get caught?”
“See what I mean?” groans Zach. “He’s got no clue.”
Brandon just laughs. “Don’t be stupid, Zach. He’s kidding again. Aren’t you, Kevin?”
I sense this is a rhetorical question. “Um, yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Everyone else laughs too, and Brandon rewards me by ruffling my hair.
“God, Kev, you’re so funny. Everyone always fixated on your dorkiness, but no one ever mentioned how witty you are. It’s good to have you on board.”
I summon an aw-shucks grin for Brandon, then struggle to hide my amazement as Ryan hands me a fake photo ID. It’s more realistic than any of my actual IDs, even though I’m apparently twenty-three years old.
“Do you really think anyone’s going to fall for this?” I say, but when I look up, Brandon and Ryan have already taken off.
Suddenly a hand clamps onto my shoulder, rooting me to the spot.
“Almost certainly not,” sneers Zach, clearly delighted at this opportunity to inflict discomfort.
I study his face, which isn’t difficult as it’s only about four inches from mine. He’s smiling broadly, but he couldn’t appear any more menacing if he pulled a knife.
“Um, hello, Zach.”
“The book is a great responsibility, Mopsely.”
“Okay.”
“And it was supposed to be my responsibility.”
“Um … okay.”
“I just want you to know I’m onto you, got it? You may be Brandon’s best buddy right now, but you’re still just a charity case.”
“Ok—” I replay that last sentence. “Wait. Did you just say I’m Brandon’s best buddy?”
“I wouldn’t get too excited,” he snarls. “What Brandon gives, Brandon can take away.”
Zach administers an unfriendly right jab to my chest and lumbers off with the grace of a heavyweight boxer, but I barely notice. As long as I’m Brandon’s best friend, I’m untouchable.
15
English class is eerily empty, like a plague just wiped out half the female contingent. At first I can’t think where they’ve gone, but then I remember, and it totally freaks me out to know that somewhere in the school my mom is teaching girls to avoid boys like Brandon. And me, I guess.
I wait for Paige to appear, and when she finally does I pat the seat beside me so she’ll come over, but instead she rushes to the back corner of the room. I wave, but she just buries her head in her People magazine and turns bright red. Something about her body language makes me think we may not be repeating our date.
I’m about to turn back to face the front of the class when I’m joined by Jessica Pantley, the ditziest member of the cheerleading squad. She studies me for a moment, then unpacks a pink notebook adorned with flowers and proceeds to write down her observations: “cute dimples, honest face, minimal acne.”
“I can see what you’re writing, you know,” I say.
Jessica lifts a finger to her lips to shush me, then narrows her eyes. She looks uncomfortable, as if the exertion of concentrating is overwhelming. She takes a deep breath and writes: “thoughtful, disarming.”
Until recently, I would have thought that seeing my character dissected in Jessica’s pink flowery notebook is one of the oddest things that could happen to me in English class. But that was before I began to attract companions like Taylor and Morgan and Paige.
“You’d like to know what I’m doing, wouldn’t you?” says Jessica in a high, singsong voice.
“I must admit, I’m slightly confused, yeah.”
“It’s what I always do before I go on a date with a boy. I study his face and make some notes. That way I can decide if he’s someone I’d like to be with.”
It’s tempting to imagine that I’ve misunderstood her. But as she gazes at me with enormously wide blue eyes, the thought of being her boyfriend is actually quite appealing.
And then I remember Paige—
/> “I was sorry to hear about you and Paige,” she says, as though all that gazing doubles as mind reading.
“What are you sorry about?”
“Oh, about you two not working out. Paige sounded absolutely brokenhearted, but I think she’ll get over it eventually.”
I look over my shoulder at Paige, who ducks beneath her People.
“I didn’t even know we’d stopped—” I begin. But then I realize that will make me sound like a complete loser. “I guess we’re just not meant to be together, you know?”
Jessica nods sympathetically and takes my hand between hers, holding me in the spell of her unwavering gaze.
“Maybe you were meant to break up for a reason,” she suggests.
“What reason?”
“Well … so that we could go out.”
Even though I’m transfixed by Jessica, I can feel Paige’s presence ten feet behind me. It would be so wrong to agree to a date with Jessica less than a day after dating Paige. That would make me the worst kind of player.
“I was thinking tomorrow, after school,” she says.
God, she has beautiful eyes.
“If the weather’s nice we could go to Brookbank lake.”
Blue flecked with green. Aquamarine eyes. Turquoise eyes.
“So what do you think?”
“I’d like that very much,” I tell her.
Jessica smiles and nods energetically, then places her hand on my leg.
English is definitely my favorite class.
As soon as I get home, I pull up Google and begin a new search: breast measurements examples with images. I’ve always heard people say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and some pictures are worth even more than that.
The screen fills with links to breast measurements, and images, and tips for augmentation/reduction, and all I can think is how I’ve been misusing the Internet until this moment. Clearly the Web was created so that I can have information like this at my fingertips. From now on I’ll treat technology with appropriate reverence.