Busted

by Antony John

  “Pretty shocking, huh?” says Abby, pointing at the scoreboard.

  I look again and realize that we’re down 5-1. Okay, that’s shocking. And fantastic.

  Brookbank is fielding, and they’re arguing with one another, spewing obscenities like they’re codes for defensive plays. Brandon flips Ryan the bird, and Ryan reciprocates, and I have a warm and fuzzy feeling about what I’m witnessing.

  The opposing batter steps up and drives a routine ground ball straight at Brandon. He bends down and … bobbles it, and suddenly another runner has scored: 6-1.

  A cheer erupts in deafening stereo and I look down toward the dugouts, where the opposition cheerleaders have been joined by Brookbank’s own. Beside me, Abby laughs and gives her friends an appreciative whoop.

  “What?” she says, as she senses me staring at her. “You didn’t really think they’d cheer for our team, did you?”

  “But what about the stuff Jefferies said?”

  “Fine print’s a bitch, ain’t it? He told them they had to attend this game, wear the Brookbank outfits, and cheer loudly. I’d say they’re doing all of those things. Wouldn’t you?”

  It’s pure genius. All of the cheerleaders sport ear-to-ear grins as they applaud each miscue by Brookbank’s team, and Jefferies has the good sense to stay out of their way as long as the TV cameras are rolling. Even Paige looks flushed with excitement—she edges her way to the front of the group and performs a sexy belly dance for the camera long after everyone else has stopped cheering.

  I glance down at the Brookbank dugout and see Spud. I figure he can’t be impressed by Ryan’s pitching tonight, but then he looks over his shoulder and winks at me. Although this is his team, I think he’s secretly thrilled to see what’s happening. While he’s distracted, Taylor dashes over and gives him a quick kiss. Zach notices and yells an obscenity from first base that’s caught on camera, so Jefferies demands that the coach take him out of the game. Then Brandon mouths off at the coach for removing Zach, so he gets benched as well.

  It’s still only the fourth inning, but for the first time in my life I’ll willingly stay until the end of the game. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.

  Brookbank loses 13-2.

  Morgan insists that we join the cheerleaders at IHOP, so Abby and I crush together on the passenger seat of Morgan’s Miata. I have a boner almost the whole way, but Abby either doesn’t notice or prefers to ignore it. Can’t say I blame her, really.

  At IHOP, eight of us cram into a four-person booth. There’s a lot of girl-bonding stuff going on, but girl-bonding stuff is kind of hot, so I don’t mind being sandwiched in the middle of it all.

  It’s not clear if anyone really wants to eat, but a waitress appears expectantly beside the booth and immediately stares at me. For a moment I’m confused, but then it all comes flooding back.

  “Um, hello, Keira,” I say.

  Now everyone’s looking at me weirdly, and I can’t even make a hasty exit to the men’s room because I’m squeezed in. Keira remains silent. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “So Keira,” I gulp, “I’m really sorry about what happened the last time I was here—”

  Keira shakes her head. “S’okay. You don’t need to apologize. I know you tried not to order anything. I really appreciated it.”

  “Anyone else wondering what’s going on here?” Taylor asks.

  Keira sighs. “Oh, a while back this guy came in with my ex, Ryan. And Ryan made me buy food for him and his friends. And they ordered a ton of stuff. All except this guy.” She nods in my direction.

  “Aw, Kevin really is Brookbank’s very own Renaissance man,” declares Morgan, which sounds especially good when there are six other girls to hear her say it.

  We’ve barely finished placing our order when Keira glances toward the door and steps back skittishly. She thrusts her order pad into the pocket of her apron and rushes off toward the kitchen.

  “What was all that ab—” begins Kayla, but then Brandon and the rest of the baseball team are standing in Keira’s place.

  “Hello, Mopsely,” spits Brandon.

  For a few seconds he simply stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I’m trying to think of something to say when suddenly he sprawls across the table, grabs my T-shirt, and punches me in the nose. It hurts like hell.

  Abby jumps up. “Get away from him, Brandon.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot … You’re his ugly bitch, right?”

  I wait for Abby to hit him, but she doesn’t. She just laughs. “Um, let me get this straight … You just lost the city championship, and your own cheerleaders chose to support the opposition, but you still reckon you have the right to call me an ‘ugly bitch’? Don’t you realize that right now you’re the biggest loser in school history? And that’s a truly monumental achievement. So pardon me if I say that being called a bitch by you doesn’t exactly mean too much.”

  Brandon’s gearing up for another insult when Keira reemerges with the rest of the wait staff and a few knife-wielding chefs.

  “That’s him,” she says, pointing at Ryan. “That’s the guy who made me give him free stuff. And he … he never even liked me that much,” she sniffles.

  An elderly guy steps forward and prods Ryan in the chest. “Son, you and your buddies best get the hell out of my restaurant. And don’t never come back, you hear me?”

  “Or what?” snorts Brandon.

  “Or I guarantee that everything you order will contain a few extra magic ingredients you never even asked for.”

  Ryan’s already edging toward the door. Reluctantly, the rest of the team joins him.

  “So long, losers,” shouts Brandon.

  We watch him leave and then erupt in laughter.

  “Your nose is bleeding, Kev,” says Abby, looking concerned.

  Taylor takes a peek. “Oh, I’ve got something to stop that.” She rummages around in her bag and pulls out a white cotton plug. “Just stay still.”

  There’s total silence as Taylor leans toward me and delicately pushes the plug up my nose. Then everyone relaxes again, giggling once more about Brandon’s recent proclamations.

  And even though everyone’s staring at me, I laugh too, because Brandon really is the stupidest person I’ve ever met.

  38

  I guess you’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ huh?”

  “Hardly seems necessary,” Abby replies matter-of-factly.

  We’re walking home together. It’s a couple of miles, but it’s a mild evening and I’m on a high.

  “It’s just that … he could be cool. And he made me feel like I wasn’t a geek. He can be a nice guy, you know.”

  Abby just shakes her head. “Your dad can be a nice guy, Kevin. Doesn’t excuse what he’s done.”

  “I guess not.” I smile at her, but she’s looking away. “Well, I’m glad everything’s back to normal now.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You really think everything’s back to normal?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, Kev,” she whispers, “it’s not. What about the pop group?”

  Oh yeah. I forgot about that.

  “You left us and you never even had the guts to say so,” she continues. “You’re the best performer this school has known and you turned your back on music. But even worse, you turned your back on me. You’re my best friend and you treated me like crap.”

  “I’m really sorry, Abby. At least I’ve apologized to everyone now—”

  “But I’m not everyone.” She stops walking and stares at me like she’s trying to explain a really easy math problem. “In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t hook up with you to inflate my measurements, or to get back at some other guy. I did it because I love you, and I thought you liked me too.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.�
�

  She looks hurt. “You’re sorry that I love you?”

  “No, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. You know, for the things I did.”

  “The things you did?”

  “Yeah. For all of it.”

  “All of it?” She shakes her head, stares at the ground. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “What do you want me to say, Abby?”

  “I want you to say you’re sorry—not about all of it, but about me, and what you did to me. And I want you to say it like you mean it. And I want…”

  I give her a few seconds, but she’s silent and still. “What do you want?”

  She peers up and sighs wearily. “Listen, Kev. I always dreamed high school would end with you walking next door to escort me to prom. I even thought it was a sure thing. But I waited and waited for you to ask me. And then, last week, I bought myself a ticket. Because whatever else you’ve done to me, I’m not going to let you spoil prom as well.”

  I nod, but I’m not exactly sure what she wants me to say, so we walk the rest of the way in silence. When we reach her house, she heads up the front walk without saying good-bye.

  “I’m sorry, Abby.” I say suddenly. “I’m really, really sorry. I mean it.”

  She turns and smiles, but it’s a distant smile. “Then prove it, Kevin. Show me you’re still the same as ever, ’cause I’m done talking. Words are cheap, as they say.” She strides away and pulls her front door open roughly. She doesn’t look back.

  I wait a few seconds, then take a deep breath and trudge one door down. I’m barely indoors when I almost trip over Mom—she’s on her knees tickling Matt the Mutt’s belly.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  And there the conversation ends, just as it has every day this week. I’m about to slide on by when I remember Abby’s words: “But I’m not everyone.” Mom’s still petting the dog, but her movements seem deliberate and tense, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. We’re at a stalemate, and I know that since it’s my fault we’re in this situation, it’s also my responsibility to make things better.

  “Morgan says they all wish they hadn’t asked you to leave,” I say, breaking the ice.

  She doesn’t look up, but I can see she’s smiling. “That’s all right. Tell her it’s sweet of her to say so.”

  More silence.

  I take a deep breath. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry. I screwed up, I know I did … and I know I hurt you.” Mom nods but doesn’t say anything. “And you were right, talking to Dad did help. Just maybe not the way you thought it would.”

  “I suspect it helped exactly the way I thought it would. Don’t forget, I know your father better than you do, Kevin.” Mom’s crying now, but she’s still smiling too, so I don’t think she’s angry or sad. “And although I couldn’t bear to think of you following in his footsteps—not after everything that’s happened—I had to give you the chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … given his recent e-mails, I had a good idea what he’d say to you.” She puffs out her cheeks. “And either you’d like what you heard and stay with him, or you wouldn’t. And then you came back.”

  “But he wasn’t always like this, right? This isn’t who he really is.”

  Mom wipes the tears away with the back of her hand and studies the floor. “Actually, honey, it is.”

  “What?”

  “His affair with Kimberly wasn’t the first, and it probably won’t be the last. I knew what he was like before we got married, but … oh, I flattered myself that he’d change for me. Like I was that special, you know?” She laughs ruefully, then shakes her head. “Well, I was wrong. Over time he got bored of me. I guess he wanted something else, something more … who really knows? Maybe being with Kimberly made him feel special somehow, but I doubt he loved her. I don’t think he’ll ever understand that when you find the right person, you don’t need other people to reassure you that you’re special. Because it’s enough to hear it from the person who means it the most.”

  Mom makes eye contact for the first time. I settle down on the floor beside her because I need to keep talking.

  “I totally blew it with Abby. She was there for me all along, and I just—”

  “You let her down, honey, but you didn’t blow it.”

  “Same difference.”

  “No, it’s not. I still love your father even though he doesn’t love me. Despite everything he’s done, I love him. And believe me, there are times I hate myself for it too. But you know what they say: even when the flames disappear, the embers keep burning.”

  I think of the family portraits at the top of the stairs—how many days, months, years will pass before she can finally bring herself to take Dad’s down? And how many days, months, years before Dad decides to put up a photo of any of us in his apartment? Mom can’t let our family go; Dad won’t acknowledge we ever existed. They’re on opposite sides of an impossible divide. Surely that’s not true of Abby and me?

  “I don’t know,” I say, thinking out loud. “Some of the things she said—”

  “She’s angry and hurt, and no wonder. So now you need to be patient. Give her time to realize you’re still the same person she’d grown to love. It’s the least you can do.” And Mom’s right about that.

  I lean over and stroke the dog gently, and for the first time in weeks he doesn’t growl at me. In fact, he nuzzles my hand before falling asleep against my leg.

  “It’s nice to talk again,” I say.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Mom kisses my cheek like I’m five years old, which I take as a sign of forgiveness and as a cue to escape. I’m almost at the stairs when she coughs delicately, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Kevin, honey, I hate to ask, but … there’s one thing that still bothers me.”

  I gulp. “Um, what is it?”

  She bites a fingernail and narrows her eyes.

  “Why are you wearing a tampon up your nose?”

  39

  I figure that everyone except me will be fashionably late to prom, but when I arrive there’s already a crowd waiting to get inside. Immediately in front of me, GRRLS forms a snaking line of slinky dresses—without a single tuxedo to spoil the effect. The few couples who somehow missed or ignored Brookbank’s feminist revolution are so heavily outnumbered that they look embarrassed to be here. It must be the first major event in school history where the partnerless dorks feel cooler than the hip, beautiful couples. I appreciate this change—it benefits people like me.

  The line is moving slowly and eventually stops altogether. I hear raised voices ahead of me, so I pull away to have a peek. Morgan and Taylor are standing side by side, holding their ground as Jefferies shakes his head, staring defiantly at a point slightly above their heads.

  “But we did what you asked,” Morgan insists.

  “You did no such thing. You were an embarrassment to the school and everything it stands for.”

  “No, the baseball team is the embarrassment,” Taylor corrects him. “We were simply standing up for ourselves.”

  “Turn around and go home, girls. And be grateful that your punishment ends here.”

  “This is completely … ” begins Morgan, but then trails off.

  Ms. Kowalski emerges from inside and sidles up to Jefferies, holding a finger to her lips. He spins around.

  “Oh hello, Jane. I was just telling these girls that—”

  “They should hurry up and come inside.” Ms. K smiles innocently. “I wondered what had been holding up the line.”

  “B-But the game last night,” he stammers.

  “Yes. They came, they dressed, they cheered.”

  “But they cheered for the wrong team!”

  “Well, y
ou didn’t tell them which team to cheer for, did you, Carl? And you’re always telling me how important it is to be specific with one’s instructions.”

  Jefferies is livid, but Ms. K is already ushering GRRLS inside to avoid further incident. They trail along behind Morgan, their unofficial leader, all smirks and giggles. And suddenly I’m at the front of the line.

  “Hold on, Mr. Mopsely,” sneers Jefferies. “What a coincidence to find you standing beside the cheerleaders again. Weren’t you one of the participants in their Quad stunt?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call myself a participant, exactly.”

  “Then what would you call yourself?”

  “Um … a bystander?”

  “Oh really? Rumor has it you provided them with the Book of Busts. Is that true?”

  Ms. K stops in her tracks and peers over her shoulder; I imagine that hearing Jefferies refer to the Book of Busts has not improved her mood. As our eyes meet I can tell that we’re both considering the current status of our cold war, so I try to convey through telepathy that I’m sorry for everything I’ve done and would like to declare a truce. Somehow, Ms. K seems to understand.

  “Carl, I’m sure you’re about to congratulate Kevin on bringing an end to that galling tradition, but in the interest of time, how about we just let him in immediately, instead?”

  “But Jane, I—”

  “Carl,” sighs Ms. K, “let’s just move things along here, okay? At the rate we’re going, some of the students won’t even make it to prom.”

  It’s about the most assertive thing I’ve ever heard her say, and Jefferies looks distinctly hot under the collar. With a flick of her head, Ms. Kowalski indicates that I should jog inside while he seems too distracted to stop me. No wonder she’s my favorite teacher.

  The school gym is decked out with streamers, balloons, and banners sporting French place names. A model Eiffel Tower that was a prop in the last school musical stands proudly in the middle of the floor. I sense a theme here, but I’ve always studiously avoided anyone associated with prom organization, so I can’t say for sure whether it’s deliberate.