by Antony John
I half-expect Ms. K to scream at Paige, but instead she just looks tired and sad.
“What about you, Taylor? Do you feel the same way as Paige?”
“Oh geez, I—”
“Of course she does,” Paige assures us, casting a level stare at Taylor. “We’re in this together.”
“In what?” moans Ms. K. “What on earth does ‘We’re in this together’ mean?” She returns her attention to Taylor. “I just can’t believe you’d feel the same way as Paige. If this is some kind of weird popularity contest, I’d like to point out that most girls have moved on to Professor Donaldson’s class, so you’re actually in the minority by staying here.”
“It’s not the female majority we’re interested in,” laughs Paige flirtatiously, kicking back in her chair and smiling confidently as all male eyes focus on her.
I take a moment to look around the room at the other cheerleaders, expecting to see them mirroring Paige’s carefree laughter. But they’re not smiling. Taylor is studying her pen, Jessica is staring intently out the window, and Morgan is shaking her head like she’s just not sure about any of this.
Only I don’t know what this is. I just know there’s a schism forming among the cheerleaders, and Paige seems blissfully unaware of it. She continues to flash her smile at the boys around her. She even throws in a few carefully executed lower lip nibbles to be extra cute.
But it doesn’t do anything for me. For the first time, even though I can’t quite believe it myself, I don’t find her attractive at all.
20
Brandon schedules the next meeting for Wednesday lunchtime, which means I’ll have to stand Abby up at lunch again. This will annoy her because she’ll know where I am and she won’t like it. We’ve avoided the topic since our run-in last week, but I know it still bugs her. Even the last quartet practice seemed kind of flat.
On the way to the meeting I stop off at the vending machine to grab a can of Dr. Pepper. Almost immediately Brandon sidles up, tutting loudly.
“Not impressive, Kev,” he sighs.
“Oh, I don’t normally drink this stuff, but—”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the fact that you’re about to put money in this machine.” He slides in front of me and holds down the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons. “Now push the button you want,” he instructs.
I hesitate a moment, wondering if I’m about to become the butt of a joke. If so, at least there’s no one around to see it.
I tentatively push the Dr. Pepper button. A can rolls out. A Dr. Pepper can, to be precise.
“The guy who owns the vending machine compiled the Book of Busts back in 1973,” Brandon says, like this explains what just happened. “He’s old as hell now, but he still remembers the glory days at Brookbank.”
I try to hide my smile. “Did you just get me a free Dr. Pepper?”
“Damn right.”
“But how?”
“The owner rewired it for us.” Brandon leans over and helps himself to a Mountain Dew. “But only important people know about this trick, so if you tell anyone else, there’ll be hell to pay. Understand?”
“Yeah. Course.”
“Cool.” He cracks open his can and bumps it against mine. “So all you have to do is press the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons at the same time as the one you actually want. It takes a bit of practice, but you’ll get it.”
“What if I want Diet 7-Up or Diet Coke?”
Brandon’s upper lip curls. “Diet drinks are for girls. You’re not a girl, are you?”
“Um, no.”
“Good. Then there’s no problem, right?”
“Well, no. But doesn’t the guy who stocks the machine notice there are cans missing?”
Brandon laughs. “Oh, that’s the best thing of all. Because the inventory never balances out on this machine, the owner can use it as evidence to fire employees who aren’t pulling their weight. So we get free drinks and he gets to run a more efficient business.”
“But … that’s illegal, isn’t it?”
Brandon puts his arm across my shoulders and lowers his voice. “Do you realize how hard it is to fire people legally these days? Even complete slackers are untouchable. I’m telling you, every time we take a can we’re making the world a better place.”
“Oh.”
“And remember what I said about us being part of something bigger than ourselves? This is exactly what I’m talking about. We’re like a fraternity, only without the Greek letters—”
“Or the kegs,” I remind him.
“Huh? No way. We have the kegs.”
“Oh.”
Brandon turns and ambles along the corridor. He doesn’t seem to mind me tagging along.
“What I’m saying is, back in 1973 this owner guy was you, Kev. He was the man. And when you’re the man, people’ll always look out for you.” He ruffles my hair. “You do realize you’re the man now, right?”
“Um … yeah, I guess.”
“Good. ’Cause there’s something I need to give you.”
Brandon stops beside his locker and opens it. He reaches in and removes a sturdy black box with the reverence normally reserved for holy relics. Inside the box, layer upon layer of tissue paper covers a cracked, ancient-looking, brown leather book.
“This,” whispers Brandon, “is the original Book of Busts.”
As he gently places it in my hands, my first thought is that it’s about to fall apart. Not only does the cover bring new meaning to the term “distressed leather,” but the book is stuffed to bursting with dog-eared pieces of paper in every imaginable shade of yellow, cream, and off-white. Every page chronicles a portion of each senior class of Brookbank girls, and all the pages have been meticulously bound together with string.
I turn to the beginning of the book, where the photographs are pretty faded. I notice that the numbers below the photos haven’t changed much over the years, but that’s less extraordinary than the horrific array of over-permed and beehive hairstyles; truthfully, having Jessica Alba’s figure wouldn’t help any of these girls.
I leaf through until I reach the 1980s, figuring there’ll be a higher proportion of hotties here, but instead my eyes are assaulted by a criminally large number of wild, gel-induced bangs. It’s not until I get to the twenty-first century that I find myself the slightest bit attracted to Brookbank’s senior girls.
“Amazing, isn’t it,” says Brandon. “It’s a historical document, when you think about it.”
“It’s old, all right.”
“And now it’s yours to keep until you’ve completed the entries for our year. When you’re done, we’ll remove the sheets from your folder and bind them into the book.” He nods his head approvingly. “You’ve earned this, Kev. You’re really getting the job done. I’m proud of you.”
“Um, thanks, Brandon. I appreciate you saying that.” I feel a little choked up. “Look, I just have to ask … why me? I mean, this is such an honor, and I guess I still don’t get why you let me do it.”
“Can you imagine any of the other guys appreciating the significance of an antique like this?” he laughs.
I laugh too. “I guess not.”
Brandon looks up and down the corridor, and thinks for a moment. “Okay, look, it’s true that the head of the Rituals usually keeps the book for himself, or gives it to one of the most popular guys in school as a reward. But the way I see it, all that does is limit the Rituals to a small group.”
Brandon closes his locker and gazes longingly at the book, like he isn’t quite ready to bid it farewell.
“Back when it started, the Book of Busts involved everybody. It was a source of school pride. But over the years, the other parts of the Graduation Rituals—the Alternative Yearbook, the Strategic Graffiti Campaign—got added, and the sig
nificance of the book got diluted. Now most guys don’t even bother to join in at all. So when you said you wanted to do the book, I realized this was my chance to remind everyone that the Rituals are bigger than any one person.”
“That’s for sure.”
“And look at you now. You’re popular, and unlike most of the other guys you deserve that, because you’ve taken your job seriously. And future generations of Brookbank seniors are going to remember you for it too.”
I have to admit that his hyperbole is quite alluring. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. You’re the guy who’s going to prove that the book is still relevant … You’re my legacy, Kev. I know you won’t let me down.”
Once the meeting begins, Brandon turns to Spud and wrings his hands anxiously, which is an unusual sight.
“So Spud, about the Alternative Yearbook … ”
Spud nods.
“Well, we, like, put you in charge of it … ”
Spud nods.
“And, like, from what I’ve been hearing you haven’t exactly been asking around for information … or help.”
Spud nods.
“So I guess what I’m saying is, are you into the whole Alternative Yearbook thing?”
Spud nods. “Dude.”
Brandon visibly relaxes. “Cool. So you’re making progress?”
Spud nods. “Dude.”
“So can we see what you’ve got so far?”
“Whoa,” grunts Spud, like a pit bull guarding a bone.
Brandon drops the matter because he values his life. Then he looks over my way and asks for an update. I notice he doesn’t seem as intimidated by me.
“Well,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “I’ve got an entry for Jessica Pantley.”
“Cool. Who gave you that?”
“No one. I got it myself.”
“So … you had a date with Jess Pantley?”
“Yup.”
At least half the jaws in the room are hanging open, and although it’s not a pretty sight, the effect is quite empowering.
Brandon tries to hide his surprise. “So what are her stats?”
I pretend to study the book as if I haven’t actually memorized them already. “34B-25-35.”
“34B my ass,” shouts Zach. “Don’t tell me, you used the same scientific guesswork as before.”
“Actually, I felt them, and they’re right on 34B.”
“You felt them? Or did you just have a grope while she was still wearing a bra?”
I don’t say anything.
“See! You didn’t touch them at all. She was probably wearing a padded bra, you moron.” He looks imploringly at Brandon. “Come on, Brandon, it’s time for dorkus here to go.”
“Zach,” says Brandon soothingly, “the fact is, Kev has filled in the blanks under two prized girls, in one week. All you had to do was dish the dirt on Taylor—who happens to be your girlfriend, by the way—but you haven’t even managed that. So until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of the job, how about you get off Kevin’s case?”
Being Brandon’s best buddy has some real perks.
Zach nods slowly. “All right, I’ll get you Taylor’s numbers,” he mumbles. “Leave it to me.”
A part of me wants to say that this is quite unlikely since she’s dumped him. But then I wonder, what if she hasn’t actually dumped him? What if she’s just two-timing him? And so I decide to keep my mouth shut.
But I’ll still go on a date with her, because if she is two-timing Zach, I’ll enjoy myself even more.
21
It’s getting easy to tell Mom I’ll be home late. She persists in the quaint, old-fashioned notion that every time I announce I’m going out on a date it will be with the same person as before, so I let her believe it. It’s not even lying.
Kayla texts me to say that we’ll be going to a movie at 7:30, and I immediately text Taylor to say we’ll meet at the same theater at 9:30. Then I brush my teeth and floss and put on a J. Crew shirt that Abby says looks really good on me.
I take one last look in the mirror and tell myself that it’s going to be fine. All I have to do is make sure the movie we choose is less than two hours long, and lose Kayla as soon as it ends. Yeah, it’ll be fine.
Just as I’m leaving I get a text from Taylor. It says she can’t make it at 9:30. I’m kind of disappointed because I think she’s hot, but I’m not going to complain because it certainly simplifies logistics for the evening.
I’m almost out the door when I get a second text from Taylor. It says: “C U 8:30.”
Crap.
The rumor is true: Kayla knows how to kiss. We’re sitting in the back row of a dark and mostly empty movie theater and we’re certainly not watching the previews. She isn’t one for small talk, it turns out, which is just fine by me because she’s the best kisser so far. She’s really full-on, the way I want to be, so it gives me a chance to move beyond Paige’s sensitive approach and be full-on straight back at her.
“Hmmm,” she says, pulling away. “Hold on there, tiger … Try it like this instead.” She leans back in.
I try it like that. It’s even better than before. For almost three minutes I feel like I’m participating in a master class.
The opening credits for the movie have barely begun rolling when she pulls away again and whispers, “You’ll never believe what I just found out.”
“What’s that?”
“I have the same measurements as—”
“Jessica Alba,” I say, completing her sentence. “Or maybe Paris Hilton?”
She looks hurt. “No way. Same as Angelina Jolie … when she’s not pregnant, I mean.”
“I got that.”
“Yeah, so do you want to know what the measurements are?”
I attempt to sigh nonchalantly. “Sure, why not.”
“36C-27-36.”
I look down at her breasts. They do seem to be around 36C, but I know my credibility is at stake.
“Are you sure you’re a 36C?”
“What kind of a question is that? That’s like me asking you if you’re sure your penis is six inches long.”
I’m not actually sure my penis is six inches long, but I don’t tell her that.
“I’m just saying I thought you might be more like a 36A or B.”
“36A?” she spits. “What the f—”
Oops. “Probably 36B then.”
“36B? Feel these and tell me they’re 36B.”
She turns to face me and I touch her breasts, but they’re hidden beneath a hooded sweater, so I can’t get a good read. This could work to my advantage.
“Too much padding,” I explain, shaking my head.
“Too much padding for what?”
“For me to be able to judge.”
Kayla looks away for a moment, then takes my hand and places it underneath her sweater. She lifts her bra and I’m touching her breast, and it’s almost painfully erotic and—
“Are you satisfied now?” she asks in a vulnerable voice that catches me off guard.
I suppose the truthful answer is no, I want to spend the next ten minutes making up my mind, and then I want us to move on to third base. But in the dull light that flickers across her face, I can see that she’s not enjoying this at all, and suddenly I feel mean and calculating and dirty. I don’t want her to think of me that way, so I extricate my hand as surreptitiously as possible.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You were right … 36C.”
I’m hoping this will placate her, but it doesn’t—she just nods curtly and turns to face the screen. I don’t say anything else because her silence is cold and uninviting.
But then I look at my watch and realize it’s almost eight o’clock, which gives me half
an hour to develop a plan or I’ll be leaving her in the middle of our date. And even though things haven’t exactly gone well, that would be sure to annoy her.
And like I say, she’s more muscular than me.
It’s 8:10 and I haven’t come up with a plan yet. I thought that Kayla might fall asleep from all our kissing, but three minutes of tonguing probably doesn’t even count as a gentle warm-up for her. She’s still watching the screen and we’re still not talking.
I am, however, sweating.
8:20: I still haven’t come up with a plan. I consider saying that I need to go to the bathroom, and then just not coming back. But if I do, then Kayla will have to inform the whole school that either (a) I’m wickedly constipated, or (b) I found more than an hour’s worth of alternative entertainment in a men’s restroom. Neither of which is true.
I am, however, hyperventilating.
8:25: I’ve come to the realization that sometimes you just have to be a man and own up to your mistakes. And mine is that I’ve set up two dates with different girls on the same evening, which in the wider scheme of things—nuclear proliferation, third-world famine—isn’t such a big deal. I’m sure Kayla will understand.
I am, however, scanning the theater for all nearby exits.
“So, K-Kayla,” I croak. “You’ll, um, never believe this, but—”
22
Kayla shushes me and I obediently shut up. I think she’s actually into the movie. Onscreen, something exciting is about to happen; I can tell because the music is eerie, with trembling violins and sporadic trombone belches. Although it’s entirely possible that I’m the only person in the theater thinking about the music.
8:27: Kayla gazes raptly at the movie couple. A tear falls from her eye, suggesting that she’s currently emotionally vulnerable and therefore prone to kill the first person that pisses her off.
Which would be me.
“Kayla … Kayla … ”