by M. C. Atwood
I turn fully to Ashley and lower my eyelids. I’ve practiced this in the mirror. It’s my sexy look.
“Depends. Are you going?”
She licks her lips. She’s a nymph, this one. Total dick-tease though, I’ve heard.
“Maybe.” She turns on her heel and sashays away, looking over her shoulder once like a sex kitten in a slasher film. She looks great from the back, too. Maybe I will go to the party tonight. I think of boobs and wonder if Violet is going. And then realize I just objectified not one but two women and my mom would kill me.
Which reminds me that if I go to the bonfire tonight, my mom would kill me twice. Besides, the fitting is tonight and I can’t wait to see how I look .
I slam my locker and head to English—so excited for this class—head nods from everyone.
Ms. Harper is writing “Now is the . . .” on the board when I slip into my seat in class, and my heart beats a little faster. I know this quote. I look around the room and see if anyone else is paying attention.
The final bell rings and the last stragglers slip in. Ms. Harper turns around and reads in deep dramatic voice, “Now is the dot dot dot. Extra credit for the person who figures out the rest of this quote by the end of the class.”
So easy. “Now is the winter of our discontent.” Richard III. I’ll take that extra credit now, please.
Tracey, who sits behind me and totally wants me, taps me on the shoulder and leans into my ear from the back, “Now is the time for her to shut the hell up.” Her breath tickles my ear, but not in a good way. Every part of me wants to give her a dirty look but I chicken out and snort instead. Better to play it cool.
Ms. Harper goes on. “Oh, but before we jump into discussing the Bard, I want to talk about the upcoming Boulder House senior field trip. I am the lucky teacher who will be taking you! I’m just so thrilled—it’s a magnificent place. So, a few things as I pass around this sign-up sheet.”
I keep hearing about this Boulder House and the senior field trip there. I guess it’s something the school does every year for seniors, only no one is required to go. It sounds mad stupid. And I still don’t get what it is. Or why I’d go.
“First things first: if you go on this trip, you don’t have to take finals.” Ms. Harper says.
Well, that’s one question answered.
“Second, the House . . .” Her eyes actually go starry. “Oh, the House, students. I consider this House poetry in motion. Maxwell Cartwright Jr.—the great man who built it—is an underrated architect of Wisconsin. You all know Frank Lloyd Wright, of course—” I look around and there are only blank faces “—but Maxwell Cartwright Jr. built a House basically IN a boulder. And on top of it. Architects to this day don’t understand how the engineering of this House works and how it stays standing. Some say it’s magic!”
She wiggles her fingers and makes her eyes wide. The class doesn’t respond. I feel bad for her. Why, oh why did she ever want to teach high school?
But she keeps trying. “Anyway, Maxwell Cartwright Jr. went to this very school when it was only one room in the 1930s. Can you believe it? And it was more than just the junior high and high school combined: it was ALL the grades at the time. Anyway, it was still called River Red School, just like it is today. Maxwell Cartwright Jr. is our most famous alum!”
Tracey laughs behind me. “Uh, okay. So some old guy built this house. Who cares? Why is this our field trip? You know, some seniors actually go to Paris for their field trips. But we’re stuck with a ‘magic’ House?” There are laughs all around in class. Why does she have to be so bitchy? Ms. Harper is trying. I don’t say anything and just sit and burn.
“Glad you asked, Tracey!” Ms. Harper says. She walks near my desk and Tracey’s behind me and her voice gets lower. “Well, if you want my opinion, you’ll definitely want to go see the genius of Maxwell Cartwright Jr., but it’s not just the House—his genius is in his collections. He has the biggest—and strangest—collections of things in warehouses attached to this magic House, you see. Every room has artifacts from around the world. Statues, animals, objects. The enormity of the place and the breadth . . . the depth . . . Well, it’s indescribable. It’s something you have to see to believe.” She lowers her voice even more. “Some say these collections have a life of their own. And that Maxwell Cartwright Jr. was actually a devil or demon, always on the lookout for new souls to collect. But certainly that’s just silly. Really, it’s just an incredibly interesting place.”
She winks at the class and then goes to the board again.
“But, I get it if you’re not sold on the idea. As a student, the main reason to go is so that you won’t have to do finals. What harm can it do?” She picks up a dry-erase marker. “Okay, back to the Bard! Anybody guess the quote yet?”
But I’m thinking of this House still. It sounds . . . nutso. But, like, interesting nutso. And because I believe education is important, I decide I want to go. My mom would want me to go. And maybe Violet is going . . . She seems like the field trip type. But most of all, in this moment, it will stick it to Tracey.
Tracey leans into my ear again, and hands me a piece of paper over my shoulder. “Here’s the stupid sign-up sheet for the Boulder House. I swear, I wouldn’t go on this if you promised me a million dollars. What are we, like, five? Who gives a shit about collections?”
She is the worst. Do I really care if she likes me? Sort of. Sort of not. I turn in my seat so she can see my profile, and grab my English book. I stick the sign-up sheet for the House on the book and sign my name. Slowly.
I look up at Tracey and smile and her face has frozen, her pen halfway to her mouth. I hand the paper to the person in front of me and have to hold in a laugh. I can almost feel Tracey’s panic on my back, can feel her following the paper around with her eyes. Passive aggressive? Maybe. But I feel better.
Maybe some day I’ll have the courage to . . . I don’t know. Say what I think? Just be myself? But that’s not going to be today. Sometimes I wonder what my dad would think of me. It’s been eight years since the heart attack, but that day is burned into my head. And the fact that I didn’t do anything—anything—to help.
Maybe being myself isn’t a great idea after all.
But, like, whatever. I just know a person has to survive, right? I turn back around and lose myself in thoughts about the roleplay coming up. I have a fitting tonight, so that’ll be boss. A fitting for my other life and my other me. The one I actually like.
DYLAN
My days? Undercover, yo.
I come to school.
Duck behind the dumpsters.
Paint my nails black.
Change into my Anarchy (sometimes Sex Pistols) T-shirt, skinny jeans, Cons.
Put on the wallet chain.
Put on the black eyeliner.
Get knocked into a locker once I’m in the building.
Meet Gretch.
Today she’s wearing this pimping cool fur outfit and I want to jump her right there. But with Gretch, you have to be subtle. So, I crawl my fingers up her arm and tickle her neck.
She knocks me with her math books, but I catch a smile.
“Why do you always smell like fingernail polish?” She keeps stuffing things in her locker and I pull my hands back quick, check to see if the polish is ruined. Solid. I use the quick-dry kind, like a drag queen western.
“We need to do your hair,” I say, and pick at her roots. “I have some bleach left.”
She sighs. Grabs the books she needs and shuts the locker. “We always need to do my hair. The problem with short bleach blonde.”
I do a little tap dance number in front of her, even though I don’t know how to tap. I say, “That’s showbiz, baby!” And then I bow.
When Gretchen smiles, the crease between her eyebrows loosens up a little and the sun comes out. The sun shines full force on me now.
> Then I get shoved into a locker. Again.
Trent, drone-bot asstroll school basketball god, says, “Freak,” and spins that ever present ball in his hand. Paul next to him shakes his head, just enough so that only I can see. He doesn’t say anything to Trent, though, like, “Hey douchejockey, maybe stop knocking Dylan into lockers?” He does, however, step just a little bit in front of Trent as they keep walking—just enough so that Trent has to veer, making him lose control of the stupid-ass ball. While Trent chases it, Paul turns around to me and gives me such a slight wink, I’d think I was imagining it if the timing wasn’t so rad. Paul’s cool. I don’t know why he hangs with that asstroll, though.
But, holy uh-oh, I hear rumblings right next to me. The bear that is Gretchen is waking up. The crease is back. Her face is getting to eggplant purple. We’re at DEFCON 5. She’s a’gonna blow.
“Gretch,” I say, but it’s too late.
She screams down the hallway, “Overcompensating, Trent? One big ball doesn’t make up for two tiny ones!”
Unless I can calm her the h-e-double-hockey-sticks down, I’ll be sporting a black eye tonight. And God knows I don’t want to explain a new injury to the Ps. It’s happened before. See, Gretch will go and scream at Trent in the hallway, maybe even shove him—definitely get in his face—but who will he come after?
ME.
Luckily Paul has already dragged him around the corner. Class is about to start.
“Gretch, baby,” I whisper, “why you using words you knoooow he don’t understand? You gotta use one-syllable words.”
Her face is back to its normal sunrise pink. She puts her hand on my head, pats. We are exactly the same height.
“Or I can just grunt,” she says.
I chuckle, then make ape noises. Scratch under my armpits. Maybe take it a little too far when I climb up the lockers and bang against them over and over, grunting grunting grunting. I move close to Gretchen and sniff at her neck, bury my head near that soft spot under her jawline where her neck starts swanning.
“Baby?” she says. Irritation Lite-Brites under her voice. Yeah. Too far.
“Yeah?”
“If that fucker runs into you again today, punch him in the throat.”
She tucks her books in her bag that looks like a monster. Like, it has monster eyes on it. And teeth. I love it. Like I love her. I can’t help myself. I burrow under her jawline again, give one more ape noise grunt. She backs away, heading toward class.
When she turns around, she yells, “The throat!” and the second bell rings.
And I haven’t gotten my books. Tardy again. Wuh-oops.
I try to slip into Mr. Rhinefart’s room without him noticing. His real name is Rhinehart. Scratch that. His REAL name, like who he really is? Definitely Rhinefart.
He says, “Well, Dylan. Thanks for coming to class. Did it take too long to put on your makeup?”
Stupid fucking sweater-vest poser asstroll.
The dronebots in the class all laugh. This is what he says almost every day. And it still pisses me off. I make an ape noise and the girl in front of me—Ashley—who is turned around laughing at me—gets this “I just smelled poo” look and faces front, saying, “Oh my god, some people shouldn’t live. Freak.”
Rhinefart turns and writes something on the board, and I block out all the conversation around me. Peace. I find a folded up piece of paper stuck in my book and take a chewed up pencil out of my pocket. I chew on the pencil some more. Wood tastes good. That thought repeats like a vinyl track skipping. Wood tastes good wood tastes good wood tastes good.
Maybe I’ll draw a clown? A scary clown. Like these people are. I hear a conversation behind me about some lame bonfire tonight. I wonder what Gretch and I should do tonight. Maybe I can talk her into the two-backed beast—it’s been a while. Like a looooong while. Damn I love that beast. Her place. Mom gone. Gates of heaven. And then a movie or something. A cuddle. It’s the only time I can get my Gretch to schnoogs with me. Otherwise, she goes porcupine.
Tonight.
Wood tastes good.
Shit. Tonight.
Dread spreads through me. After school I’ll have to take off the nail polish right away. And the eyeliner. What time is that thing at? I shoot a look back to Rachel, this totally repressed chick who wears long sleeves and long skirts all the time. Rachel would know the time. She looks up and catches my eye and I look away real fast. I don’t think she knows me. I don’t think. Not like this, anyway.
I realize I’ve been scratching at the paper in front of me and the pencil’s broken through and is writing on the desk. Ashley has turned around again and she sees the pencil marks.
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Dylan. Can you have your psychotic break in a different class? Like, when you’re not sitting by me?” She’s so hot. And such a bitch. She flips around and her hair wafts strawberries at me. How is it bitchy people smell so good? Totally unfair.
She said Dylan. She knew my name.
Sweet.
Rhinefart is babbling about fucking cosine this and fucking sine that. He tries his best to fit into the football coach/math teacher stereotype. He’s awesome at it.
As he is telling “the girls” some measuring cup metaphor that’s supposed to relate to trig, some dudette peeks through the door. She works in the office and I see her everywhere. She’s chirpy.
Chirp chirp, “Mr. Rhinehart! Sorry to bother you.”
Rhinefart looks annoyed. “Yeah?”
She skips in and says, “The office says I’m supposed to give this announcement.” She clears her throat and her eyes get wider. “We will be passing around a sheet today to sign up for the Boulder House senior trip.” She hands a paper to Rhinefart, then bounces out of the room. Rhinefart stares at her ass. He’s classy that way.
I should get Gretch to go. Field trip = different places for us to do it. Plus, a day NOT at this torture chamber called high school. I’ll put our names on the sheet when it comes along. She’ll never agree to it, so I’ll have to forge her name. Wouldn’t be the first time. After an hour of throwing words at me like “patriarchy” and “death by hot poker” she’ll forgive me. I mean, it’s been four years and she hasn’t dumped me yet.
Rhinefart drones on. I draw a picture of a scary clown. He looks a lot like Rhinefart. I make the clown fart. There. Portrait done. I should charge him.
The sheet comes to me and I write my name on it, then write Gretch’s. Boulder House is mad sick and I know Gretch will like it. After she kills me.
I pass the sheet to Ashley, totally expecting her to pass it up. But holy balls, oh, damn, oh what have I done, she actually signs it. I’m going to be in so much trouble. Like. So much trouble. Jesus help me. Ashley is basically Gretch’s arch nemesis. And I just stuck them on a bus together. Wuh-oops.
And then the bell rings.
I still have to make it through the day. I don’t know what is worse—having to stay at this fucking school and get thrown into a locker every five minutes or do the thing tonight.
The thing tonight. Definitely. I’m faking it there. But I don’t want to hurt my parents’ feelings.
Later, when I have actually made it through the day and have been knocked into a locker like six more times and the last bell rings, I sprint out of school without even saying bye to Gretch. Which makes a shitty day even shittier. But I can’t be late.
I duck behind the dumpsters.
Take off the nail polish.
Put on the khakis, white shirt, loafers.
Part hair on side. Comb over. Smooth down.
Scrub off the black eyeliner.
Pray that no one sees me.
Jump on my bike and pedal like the wind home. Back to prison. I can feel everything cool slide off of me the closer I get. Transformation to dronebot complete when I ride my bike across my huge-ass lawn. Every bla
de is flawless, chemically enhanced. Greener than grass should be. All for show. I open the garage and park my bike in the spot where it goes and smooth down my pants. Pat down my hair. Mom meets me at the door to our huge three-story McMansion piece of shit. Her long skirt brushes her ankles. “You’re late, young man. But grab a cookie before you change and get crumbs on your good outfit. ”
She grabs my collar, straightens it out, and brushes imaginary lint and crap off the front of my shirt.
I flinch, half-swat her hands away from me, hoping she doesn’t notice the folds in my shirt from being in my bag. I take a huge bite of the cookie. “Thanks, Mom,” I say, chewing. And then I swallow and paste on an angelic smile. “I can’t wait for tonight.”
ASHLEY
I so want to go to private school. The people in this school are such losers.
But daddy-o sure wouldn’t like it. Bad for the old campaign. Soon-to-be Senator Garrett couldn’t brag about being a hometown boy.
Whatever.
I get out of my Lexus and walk to the shit-yellow school building I have to endure for the rest of the year. Then it’s California, Stanford, law school, life. Out of this shithole town.
But in the meantime, I gotta play the game.
Without meaning to, I look for Gretchen’s trash car, bright orange and rusted. The thing sounds like a jet engine and smells as bad. I make myself stop looking for it and stare straight ahead. She’s nothing. Less than nothing. Not worth my time.
I swing my hair, stare down a freshman who’s staring at me, and click-clack my way to the front door. I see that freak Dylan—Gretchen’s boyfriend—pop up behind a dumpster and hurry in the front doors before me. Jesus. Of course he hangs out behind a dumpster.
Kaleigh, Jane, and Madison are waiting on the other side of the front doors. I don’t even look at them when I come in, but they follow behind me anyway. We are such a ’90s teen movie, it’s like we’re playing pretend. Seriously. But know what? It works. I know what to expect from people, and they know what to expect from me. Better to be on top than to have nuance. Nuance is for losers.