Both short, both tough, both know how to sting with our words and our fists. He had a more screwed up childhood than even I did . . . that’s saying something. Left him scarred and leery and a loner. Took Pocket a day to wear me down into friendship. Took him three years to wear down Jesus.
“Why you not over their getting your ass kissed too, El Rey? Don’t like the feeling of lips near your hole? Fear they might chomp down on hanging fruits?” he asked, giving me shit.
I gave some back. “Speaking from personal experience there? You goatse them cheeks to get a meal for yourself? Bend over and say dive in?”
Jesus took the hit on him growing up orphan and on the streets without a flinch. Even fifteen-year-old-me’s not fucked up enough to go there without knowing he could handle it. “Some nights when my dogs and me would split a crust of bread smeared in ketchup packet I wished I had the skill . . . But I’m not pretty enough, El Rey. Them boy fuckers have high standards, believe that? Don’t like the scars on my face, don’t like my tough skin, don’t like I’m too brown.”
“Turned down for sex slavery, that’s an odd hit on the pride.”
Jesus grinned just like a panting dog, but minus the hanging tongue. “Pampered life for a year or two and then . . . used out. Wouldn’t have made it here if I went down that path.”
“Or would have made it with some hanging ass cheeks . . .”
“The two of you are unbelievable,” Raj muttered, shocked more than usual.
Jesus and I laughed, Raj shook his head, but Athir joined in nervously, not to be left out. Didn’t help Athir that he never fit in with the attitude of the place. Parents should have probably placed him at the Continental Academy; they do stuffed tight, repressed European aristocracy from what I’ve heard. At the Asylum everything hangs out . . . even ass cheeks . . . even the crazy . . .
A bit of silence followed, filled with eating and drinking and watching from the outside.
Eventually, Jesus hit me on the shoulder. “So what’s the real reason you don’t partake the fine female company our class has to offer?”
“Letting Pocket have his day in the sunflower and the like,” I said, shrugging at the sight of him blushing over Naomi sitting on his lap, “just me being magnanimous.”
Jesus popped a small pastry into his mouth, chomping it whole, but winking at me. “I see through you, El Rey.”
“Big stack of shit to see through, Fishsticks.”
“Poor Pocket never notice it, but I do.”
“What?”
“Ruling behind the throne. Get him all the glory and sit back.”
True or not, it set off some of my fight instincts. “I don’t hide, man. Not like that at all.”
“You don’t hide, I agree. Like being here with the rest of us looking in though. Like being the monster living in the attic that comes out to save the day when civilization says ‘awww, fuck it’.” Jesus wagged another pastry like a finger. “Those girls, those guys, they get blinded by the pretty boy. Think he got lucky, or think he just won through talent. Gives you space. But I see through you, El Rey.”
I snarled back at him, something worse than dog-like. “What you see on the other side?”
Jesus bit off a piece of the pastry, talking around it, “One devious son-of-a-bitch. Some of your games with Welf, the staff end of last year you had nothing to do with, now this. Got a mastermind hiding behind pissed off white-trash.” The last half of the pastry joined the rest. “Need my help for a play that isn’t a late night pussy dream but something real? Something life and death? Just ask, El Rey, just ask and Jesus will provide.”
Raj squinted through it all. “Did you understand any of that?”
Athir only shook his head.
But I understood.
Jesus understood.
A predator to a natural-fucking-disaster, we understood
[CLICK]
“To the victorious!” Welf called out.
“To Class ’09!” we all called back.
“To the fallen!”
“To Class ’08!” we shouted.
Okay, now I was getting sick of it.
Maybe Welf realized it too. Not just me, but the class as a whole. He got looks, ‘shut up, asshole, we’re talking here.’ Rolled eyes, patronizing smiles, all that stuff. Oh, you Nazi douchenozzle, Heinrich, you just can’t help yourself, can you?
Or maybe not, maybe he was as oblivious as always to the nozzle-ness in his personality. For whatever reason he changed it up. Expanded on the theme. Kept going. Extended the glory outward to buy himself just a bit more attention. Eat it on up. Bask. Jesus was right. I didn’t dig being liked, didn’t dig being in the spotlight unless I was offending someone . . . and it went deeper; people like Welf wanted to be on top . . . made me want to knock them off just on the principle of it all.
If he’d chosen other targets to leech on I just might have given a roast for the idiot’s brilliant plans that so would have fucked us if we followed them a second time. But no . . . words out of Welf’s mouth had to be, “To Sabine’s first eliminator, who succeeded through a virtuoso performance of camouflage, scio-anima, and a kick from behind!”
And Class ’09 called back, “To Eva!”
Eva gave a playful curtsy, trying not to blush. She was so small and short that she barely moved towards the ground at all, dipping knees or not.
Welf kept it up, pointing at the girl standing next to him, even as Hope on the other side fumed. “To Sabine’s second eliminator, who succeeded through aim, pyro-anima, and courage to face our biggest enemy one-on-one!”
“To Valentine!”
Val waved it all off, embarrassed to be getting all the credit. She looked over to me and asked the question with her face. Should I say something?
But I shook my head, yelling out before Welf could continue, “Fuck that Valentine shit!” And just when the class was ready to burn me at the stake, I raised my own glass, “to Boomworm!”
“To Boomworm!”
Welf glared but failed to join me in a bigger interruption, turning to his next target. “And last . . .”
Pocket knew what was coming and blushed deeply enough red to make up for both the girls put together. “Last in kills!” he complained.
A chuckle from the class.
“But not least . . .”
“I sure hope not,” Naomi giggled on his lap.
“To the man who saved the day, the man who hit the final button, the man who won us our place in the semi-finals!” Welf yelled, so excited he almost splashed whatever he was drinking all over his head.
“To Pocket!”
“To Pocket!”
“To Pocket!”
[CLICK]
Wasn’t much later when Keith Gullick and another of our teachers popped in, along with our student-advisor for the year. Gullick I’ve described plenty. If you’ve forgotten, go get checked for dementia and don’t drive to the appointment, you inconsiderate bastard. The second teacher was Audrey Foster, who I’ve described once. She taught us Theory of Anima, kind of the why and what to Gullick’s where and how of the Mancy. When was a whole other class . . . had philosophy and ethics and shit in it.
Not one of my better grades.
Refresher for Audrey Foster: aeromancer, Intra, liked some Russell Quilt, disliked some Ceinwyn Dale, and wore whimsical airy dresses that . . . nope, still not going there . . .
Student-advisor the second was one Matty Rivera. Way different guy than our first student-advisor, Patrick Hanks the super dweeb. Hanks was hands-on, even up-your-ass, where Rivera was laid back. Hep of course, Ultra of course, a pyromancer. He was really popular with all the Ultras, involved in all the cool kid clubs and cool kid sports, and generally didn’t have much time for us lowly Bi’s. Just like all the other non-magical sophomores out there, we might not be Singles, but that only put us one step above mud.
One step ain’t that far from a dirty foot.
“Everyone settle it down for a bit,” Matty ordered
as soon as he stepped inside the dorm, “Your teachers have an announcement to make that you’ll want to hear.”
Only they didn’t say much, since Mr. Gullick couldn’t take his eyes off of his daughter sitting on a boy’s lap. Naomi seemed to realize the problem and slipped all the way down to the couch without looking anywhere near him. Daughters, man . . . if the Mancy’s good I’ll never have any of my own. Gullick seemed to come to himself, hand scratching through his thick beard, but then he paused and glared a little more at Pocket.
“Important announcement,” Miss Foster reminded him in singsong.
A shake of the head and some determination returned the famous encouraging Gullick smile to his face. “Right . . . announcement,” he grumbled. Eventually he pulled out a piece of paper with some printed words on it. Daughters, man. Flustering the unmovable just by sitting on a lap. “The Lady sends her congratulations to Ultra Class 2009 for advancing to the semi-finals of the Winter War,” he read, pausing for a cheer, then continued, “Over the next days the Intra field will be decided in their own tournament and you will have your next match soon following.”
A second cheer. Gullick smiled again, back in a groove. “Personally, I’m not supposed to have favorites as a teacher, but good job all around—even Pocket.”
Naomi stared at her feet, Pocket at the ceiling.
Least she was just sitting on your lap, Fernthrower, when Gullick caught me with her in Pent I had my face between her tits and my fly was open. Yeah . . . that was fun. Oh, memories . . .
Some advice, kiddies: never piss off a floromancer in the Park; they have too many weapons at their disposal.
More cheering died down as Gullick shushed us with his hands. “Also, because you’re now in your second year, you’ll be required to attend the Winter Ball, which takes place the night of the Winter War final.”
Every girl in the class, even boyish, don’t-care-about-pretty Eva beamed in pure joy. There might have even been fangirl squees.
Every guy in the class wore a look of pure unadulterated you-the-baby-daddy terror. There might have even been pant pissing.
A dance . . .
Magic school and a dance . . .
A fucking dance . . .
Gullick pointed at Miss Foster. “Miss Foster will be in charge of formal wear, there’s a booklet she’ll hand out with what’s allowed and you get to pick from it. If you’re going as a couple you’ll also need to register as partners with Russell Quilt in Testing. He’ll need to know before the Ball so don’t procrastinate asking someone out for too long.” Gullick stared at Naomi and Pocket for a bit, distracted again.
“Decorations,” Foster whispered to him.
“Ah, yes, and if you’re interested in helping with decorations of the Hall, go see Mrs. Greenbrier to volunteer,” Gullick finished, gave a last look at Pocket, shook his head, and then exited the room.
“Tomorrow, girls,” Miss Foster added cheerfully before she could be mobbed, “enjoy the night and don’t worry, all the dresses are lovely.”
Matty Rivera wanted out of there too. “You guys need me? No? Good. More girlfriend time.”
My little huddle of dwindling testosterone radiated surprise . . . but judging by the way Pocket ran up to me with pleading eyes before three or four girls could ask him to be their dates, we weren’t nearly as bad off as him. “Help me!” he growled, diving into the chair beside me like my very presence could ward off the estrogen horde.
“Oh, so now we’re best buddies again.”
“We never stopped being best buddies!”
“Why you so scared? Play this right, make them jealous enough, and one of them will probably fuck you.”
“King Henry,” Raj butted in, “while I’m happy to humor your cursing, you really shouldn’t talk like that about other people, and not so loudly, you might hurt their feelings.”
I stared at him. “What are you, a My Little Pony?”
“Help me!” Pocket growled again, under his breath. “One at a time: fine. All of them at once and I’ll piss them all off!”
“Do they have an Indian My Little Pony? It got a turban?” I asked, curious.
“I’ve told you plenty of times that I was born in Oregon,” Raj calmly said.
“What about you, Athir? Know about any Indian My Little Pony?”
Athir tilted his head, thinking. “Never watched that show.”
“Shit . . . can’t be a My Little Pony then, Raj, just have to settle for a minority friend on a sitcom. I’m pretty sure they’re all named Raj too.”
“I’m merely pointing out that if you hope to get a date for this Winter Ball then you might think about being nice to them,” Raj said, glancing at the girl who he was most interested in . . . a certain ginger nemesis of mine.
“You don’t know women as much as you think you do,” I muttered but wasn’t really paying attention. Teachers announce a dance and immediately I’m questioning the motives. Fucking Asylum, right? Always question the motives. A dance? Didn’t join no clubs. Ain’t going to no dance . . .
. . . only then I think about some of the girls in the class. Might not be so bad to sweeten up a few of them. Plus . . . fourteen guys, sixteen girls, maybe a couple take an Intra or something . . . but pretty even. We had to all match off, didn’t we? Who would I want to match off with?
Obvious, eh?
Valentine Ward.
Cool girl.
But . . . I mean . . . she was nice to me and we joked and stuff and me being me I’d hump about anything. But . . . how could I convince her to go out with the Foul Mouth? Take up all that baggage. Anyone else more reasonable? Asa was out. Couldn’t stand me. Hope . . . hah, make me laugh. Hope’s little circle too. Debra and Estefan would go together of course.
Options getting limited, Price.
Miranda?
Damn, I think I just busted my gut from laughing so hard.
Isabel?
And my balls dropped off screaming in terror.
Maybe I could latch onto Pocket, make his date get me a date too. Seems fair for saving him from the horde right now . . .
Watching everyone size everyone else up was hilarious. Too small, too big, just right and all that. A few eyes found Valentine, the eyes of hopelessness. Guys telling themselves: never happen. What would she see in you?
Only one pair thought they had a chance.
One pair was right next to her, talking to her, straight up ignoring Hope Hunting. Hope became more frigid by the second as she sat unasked to the Winter Ball by the boy who wasn’t officially her boyfriend but might as well have been.
Hope’s gorgeous, but Welf was going for the best the class had to offer—just like always. Rank, test scores, fencing, clubs, basketball, Winter War, why not girls too?
The thought of some girl as nice as Valentine Ward spending the night dancing with a pompous prick like Heinrich Welf . . . of me having to watch it while I got stuck with an Intra or Isabel . . .
Wasn’t jealousy.
Wasn’t a knight job.
Was the natural-fucking-disaster in me, wanting to break some plans, tear down the rules. Smash them commandment stones into pieces. A golden calf, motherfuckers? Did a bitch just not part a fucking sea to save your asses? TEN plagues, not nine, TEN fucking plagues and I come back to this shit?!?!?
Man in the shadows? That what you think, Valencia? Not anymore.
Mastermind? Hell yeah to that one.
Convincing the coolest girl in the whole school to go with me to this dance? That’s a declaration of badass.
But how you gonna do it?
Shut up.
No, serious, man, be reasonable for once. Go with the Pocket plan, get him a date with Naomi, get you a date with Sandra Kemp tacked on. She’s cute, nice, kind of innocent and gullible too. You like gullible, it got you laid in Visalia.
Shut up.
You do this . . . you’ll probably fail. You’ll be one of the last ones to pick. End up with Isabel. What’s the best yo
u can really expect? Ruining things for Welf, right? That really worth it?
I do owe the Nazi fucker for Leo’s ass kicking, don’t I?
Besides . . . Val’s the only girl I’d want to spend a dance with anyway.
[CLICK]
First step: make sure Welf is out of the running.
I turned to Pocket. “You want the girls to stop mobbing you for the rest of the night?”
“Yes, please! Tell me your trick for being so repulsive!”
I just stared at him for a bit.
He eventually caught up to his mouth. “That was unintentional . . .”
“I’m going to go have a talk with Welf—“
No idea what Athir and Jesus were talking about, but Raj still listened in. “This sounds like a very bad idea. You two don’t mix well enough for talk to only be talk.”
“Just talk, I promise. No beat downs. Though . . . fucker does deserve it . . .”
Raj’s turn to stare at me.
“Fine, fine, just talk. When I do, Pocket, you ask out Hope to this Winter Ball thingy.”
Pocket’s face was very skeptical about this idea. “I don’t want to go with Hope to anything. She’s a pill, dude. Hot and rich, yes, but total pill.”
“Wow, getting pretty full of yourself over one little victory, ain’t you, buddy?”
“So you think Hope will turn me down . . .”
“Of course.”
“Because she will only go with Welf?”
“We’ll pretend that’s the reason.”
Pocket ignored the burn this time. “Then why ask her?”
“She’s the only girl in class that you’re sure will turn you down.”
“How does this help me?” he asked, starting to get worried he was about to be swarmed with requests to autograph cleavage again.
“It will offend all the other girls in the class that you picked Hope and not them.”
Pocket used the frown he usually reserved for when he tried to do math in his head. “Wait . . . I want one of them to eventually say ‘yes’, right?”
“Yeah, but asking Hope and her turning you down won’t piss them off for a week, more like for the rest of the night.”
The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes) Page 12