Absolutely Positively Not

by David LaRochelle

  I slammed shut the book I was reading.

  What had I been thinking? There was nothing wrong with having Rachel for my friend. There was nothing wrong with dancing either. Heck, there wasn’t even anything wrong with dressing up as a woman. The football team dressed up as cheerleaders every year as part of the homecoming talent show and nobody ever called that deviant behavior.

  If Trent Beachum thought having Rachel for a friend was wrong, then he knew nothing about me. Nothing. Maybe if I hurried, I could stick his clueless book back where I had found it and catch Rachel before she left.

  When I went to return the book, however, the aisle was no longer empty. Standing where Trent Beachum’s book belonged were two husky students from our rival, Lake Asta High. The backs of their letter jackets showed their mascot, the Fighting Walleye, and their sleeves were striped with yellow bars indicating all the times they had lettered.

  Why weren’t they at home watching hockey like everyone else?

  I tucked Trent’s book beneath my arm and kept my distance while I waited for them to leave. I hoped they’d browse faster than Miss Abbergast at the Gas-O-Rama.

  “I don’t know why we have to check out a book,” complained one of them. “Why can’t Hoffman let us watch a video instead?”

  “Because she’s a witch,” said the other. “With a capital ‘W.’”

  I busied myself with straightening the books on the shelves and prayed that they’d find what they wanted soon.

  “Hey! Look at the stupid faggot!”

  I stopped straightening.

  “Big deal. You want to marry him or something?”

  “You bet. I’d like to marry him with a two-by-four up his —.”

  Suddenly there was no air. My chest tightened as if squeezed by an invisible fist.

  It wasn’t possible. I had been so careful. How could these guys know what I had been reading?

  “Look at that faggy face! Losers like that make me sick.”

  I looked up and saw that the two had moved closer. One was waving a brightly colored book titled Gay Youth Today. The cover showed a smiling young man draped in a rainbow flag.

  “What kind of fruit would read crap like this?”

  The fist around my chest loosened. They weren’t talking about me after all. They were talking only about a book.

  I laughed out loud in relief.

  The two stopped talking, and their heads swiveled in my direction.

  “What are you laughing at, Scumface?”

  The air was suddenly gone again.

  “Are you talking to me?” I said, looking over my shoulder. “I’m not laughing. I’m not even remotely amused.”

  The one with the book raised it like a club and started coming toward me. I knew I should run, but my feet had grown roots. Where was that beefy reference librarian when I needed her?

  The Lake Asta jock grabbed my collar. A giant zit on the end of his nose stared back at me like a big white eye. He shoved the book hard beneath my chin. “Maybe you were looking for this.”

  I was going to die. I was going to have my throat slit by a library book. I was going to go to my grave without ever getting my driver’s license.

  “Not me,” I choked. “I don’t want any book.”

  His grip on my shirt tightened. My minutes on this earth were numbered.

  “Wow,” I gasped. “That is so incredible. That is really, really incredible.”

  The three-eyed walleye glared hatefully at me, then took the bait. “What? What’s so incredible?”

  “Your jacket. Those stripes. Did you really letter nine times?”

  He lowered the book and let go of my shirt. “Ten,” he said, flexing his arms so I could get a look at his sleeves.

  “Ten,” I repeated. “Impressive.”

  He studied the stripes to make sure he hadn’t miscounted.

  “Damn right it’s impressive. And it’ll be twelve by the end of the year.”

  “Jake!” called his friend. “Let’s get out of here. I found what we need for Hoffman’s class — unless you’re getting the fag book.”

  “Hell no,” said Jake, sticking the book upside down on the shelf.

  I flattened myself against the wall, and the two passed by.

  “Go Walleyes!” I told them as they swaggered to the checkout desk.

  And then I was alone.

  It took me several minutes to recover from this brush with the afterlife. Then I realized I was still squeezing Trent Beachum’s book beneath my arm. I looked at the happy family on the cover.

  So what if Trent had a few outdated ideas? His entire book couldn’t be bogus, or else the library wouldn’t own a copy — right? And I certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of my life being terrorized by library thugs like Jake.

  Absolutely, positively not.

  I brought Dr. Beachum’s book back to the study carrel and continued reading.

  You can still save your son from a life of loneliness and shame, but you must act now before it is too late. By following these simple guidelines …

  “Steven! There you are!”

  It was my mother, dressed in her square-dancing outfit. Her ruffled red and white skirt with the six layers of petticoats stuck out from beneath her winter jacket like a satellite dish. Her hair was tied back in a bright red bow, and she wore matching low-heeled dance shoes.

  I shoved what I had been reading deep into the branches of the plastic tree.

  “I’ve been waiting for you out in the parking lot for the past ten minutes.”

  An old man at a study table stretched his neck to get a better look.

  “I’ll be there in a second,” I said. “I just need a little more time. Alone.”

  “Well, make it quick. We don’t want to be late.”

  My mother swished back to the exit, her skirt rustling against the bookcases and tables.

  When she was gone, I retrieved Trent Beachum’s book from the fake plant.

  Now what? I didn’t have time to finish reading his advice and from the way he talked, I didn’t have a minute to lose.

  My options were limited. Handing the clerk at the checkout desk a book titled Sex, Your Son, and His Future was out of the question. Way out.

  Which left me with only one choice.

  Steal the book.

  I corrected myself. Not steal. Borrow. Borrow the book without using my library card. It wasn’t stealing if I planned to return the book when I was through.

  I hid myself behind a rack of CDs, lifted my shirt, and slid the book beneath the waist of my jeans. Then, very calmly, I walked toward the exit, reminding myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Libraries are meant to help us, I told myself. Don’t act guilty. Librarians can smell guilt.

  I was only a few feet from the door when the book began to slip. Just a little. I started taking smaller steps, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone else. The old man from the study table was leaving too, and bumped me on his way out. The book slid a few more inches down my pants.

  Keep cool, Steven. Just one more step and I’d be home free. I stretched my arm and my fingers touched the door handle. I pushed the door and —

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  Piercing red strobe lights flashed above the door. A warning alarm screamed into my ears. The handful of people still in the library turned to stare.

  The book in my pants had triggered the security system.

  The killer reference librarian came charging like a rhino. I tried to think of a good reason as to why I had a sex book down my pants, but my brain refused to work. Scowling, she flicked a switch alongside the door and the alarm stopped, replaced by a pulsating silence. I crossed my legs and hoped she wouldn’t notice the squarish bulge just above my right knee.

  She wagged her head and frowned. “I am so sorry. That thing has been acting up all day. We’ve got a repairman coming tomorrow, but I should have kept the darn thing turned off.”

  Was she bluffing? Was she giving me one last cha
nce to confess before calling the cops?

  “I’m sorry if it scared you. Are you okay?”

  “Me? Yeah, I’m fine.”

  I was on the verge of going into cardiac arrest.

  She held the door open for me.

  “I apologize again. Have a good evening.”

  I nodded like a bobble-head, then sidestepped into the night. Grasping my pants leg, I lowered myself into the driver’s side of our car.

  “I don’t see any books,” said my mom. “You made it sound like going to the library was an emergency. Did you find everything you wanted?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  As I drove us to the Sandville VFW, where we danced, I was careful not to make any sudden movements that might cause the book to drop to the floor. I drove slowly and cautiously, gently touching the accelerator, gently applying the brakes. I never came close to the speed limit. When I pulled into the VFW parking lot, my mother looked at me with admiration.

  “That was excellent, Steven. I’ve never seen you drive better. I do believe you’re learning.”

  While my mom was getting out of the car, I shook Trent Beachum’s book from my pants and stashed it beneath the driver’s seat where I could retrieve it later. My dance clothes were folded in a neat pile in the backseat and I carried them into the VFW hall, where I changed in a cramped stall in the men’s bathroom. Then I went downstairs to the dance floor, where the Busy Bees were gathering.

  My mother first brought me to the Busy Bee Square Dancers when I was twelve. She had read a magazine article claiming that square dancing added ten years to a person’s life. “I’d rather die young if I have to dress like an idiot,” was my father’s response when she bought him a red and white checkered cowboy shirt. Not discouraged, my mother exchanged the shirt for a smaller size and drafted me to take his place.

  From my very first dance I felt right at home with the Busy Bees. They treated me like an adult, and I liked that. Nobody ever pinched my cheek or told me that I looked cute or talked to me in that phony, high-pitched voice that most people use with little kids. I was simply another dancer.

  “Howdy, Geezer!”

  Morris and Mavis Swenson spotted me coming down the stairs. Because I was the youngest member of the Busy Bees, “Geezer” had been my nickname almost from the start.

  “We didn’t see you when your mother arrived,” said Morris. “We were afraid you weren’t coming tonight.”

  “Heaven forbid I’d be stuck dancing with this old crank all evening,” said Mavis, squeezing her husband’s arm.

  A few of the dancers were my mother’s age, but most of the Busy Bees were like the Swensons, well into their denture-cream years. Age spots, hearing aids, and thinning hair were almost as much a part of their outfits as the brightly colored Western wear.

  “Pretty good crowd tonight,” said Morris.

  Morris and Mavis were King and Queen Bee, the elected goodwill ambassadors whose duties included welcoming first-timers. My mom and I had finished a close second in the last election. Thank goodness runners-up did not have to wear official Busy Bee sashes across our chests like the Swensons.

  “We’re still looking for a few more dancers,” announced Hank, our caller for the evening.

  “Would you do me the honor?” I asked Mavis, offering her my arm.

  She slipped her bony elbow through mine. “See how a gentleman acts?” she told her husband.

  “Now don’t you go spoiling her,” said Morris. “Remember, I’m the one who has to live with her the other six days of the week.”

  Morris went to scout out the platters of cookies and brownies on the refreshment table while Mavis and I joined the others already on the floor.

  “How you doin’, Geeze?” called Hank as we took our place with three other couples. His voice was amplified by the speakers on either side of the room. He adjusted his headset, then blew into the mike to test its volume. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a couple of squares. Rev up your engines, everybody, and let’s start dancing!”

  He leaned down and pushed a button on the portable CD player at his feet. A bluegrass version of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” began to play.

  “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.

  Bow to your partner, and bow to your corner, then swing her with all your might.”

  Hank’s deep bass voice bounced off the display cases of WWII photos and military medals that lined the basement walls. His long ponytail swung to the rhythm of the upbeat music. His voice was strong and clear and always easy to follow.

  Mavis and I moved from one familiar pattern to the next. We Boxed the Gnat, Slipped the Clutch, and See Sawed. Forward, backward, left, and right, the eight dancers in our square wove in and out of each other. As Hank and the music moved us across the floor, I forgot about Jake and his buddy at the library. I forgot about Trent Beachum’s book and the reason why I needed it. I was just plain happy to be dancing with the Bees.

  The dance lasted about five minutes. When the music ended, we all reached into the square and shook hands, thanking everyone else. Very civilized.

  “Looks like we’ve got a newcomer tonight,” said Mavis as we walked off the floor.

  I followed her gaze across the crowded basement to where a tall, dark-haired man was talking to Morris. His back was to me, but I recognized him instantly.

  It was Mr. Bowman.

  Mr. Bowman in a hunter green cowboy shirt and a black leather vest.

  “Geezer! Mavis! I have someone I want you to meet!”

  I was suddenly overcome with the urge to dive beneath the refreshment table and disintegrate into tiny subatomic particles. No one from school could be allowed to see me here.

  Yet part of me wanted to gallop across the room and join them. It was, after all, Mr. Bowman, making Western wear look better than I ever thought possible.

  Disintegrate or gallop? A tough call.

  Mavis made the decision for me and pulled me toward her husband.

  Remembering that I was the Vice King Bee, I rallied my manners and spoke first. “Hi, Mr. Bowman.”

  “It’s Tom,” he said, reaching out and shaking my hand with both of his. “This isn’t school.”

  “You two know each other?” asked Morris.

  The hand that Mr. Bowman had shook hung loosely at my side, feeling incredibly light.

  “Steven is one of my star students, the only one to turn in extra credit four times last week.”

  I felt my face grow warm with pride.

  “Your teacher’s been telling me he’s an old hat at square dancing.”

  “Every week, before I moved to Beaver Lake,” said Mr. Bowman. “Square dancing runs in our family.”

  Not only were Mr. Bowman and I both keenly observant, we were both seasoned square dancers. It was amazing all we had in common.

  “What about your wife?” asked Mavis. “Does she dance?”

  Another famous Bowman smile. “I’m happily single.”

  People were gathering in the middle of the room and Hank was calling for more couples. Mr. Bowman extended his arm.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  For the tiniest fraction of a second, I thought he was talking to me.

  “I’d love to,” said Mavis.

  As I watched the two walk off, my mother stepped up to my side. “This next dance is mine,” she said, and dragged me into Mr. Bowman’s square.

  Usually my mom and I make a pretty good pair, but tonight I danced like a lame toad. I faced the wrong way. I swung the wrong partner. I moved the wrong direction. Hank had to interrupt his calling several times to give me individualized instructions: “It’s a Right-Hand Chain, Geeze. Use your other right hand.”

  Nobody else in our square seemed bothered by these mistakes. Not my mother, not Mavis, not Mr. Bowman. When I ended up on the wrong side of the square, my mother just called, “I’m over here, Steven!” and everyone laughed good-naturedly.

  I wanted to scream
. The harder I tried to keep in step, the more I stumbled. It was as if someone had tied bowling balls to both of my legs.

  Mr. Bowman, on the other hand, was smooth and relaxed. He was always exactly where he should be. He laughed with Mavis as he promenaded her around the square. When the men met in the center for a Right-Hand Star, his grip on my wrist was strong and confident.

  I didn’t dance again that evening. I had already humiliated myself once in front of Mr. Bowman, no need for a repeat performance.

  Mr. Bowman, however, didn’t miss a single dance. In fact, so many women wanted to be his partner that they eventually had to start a waiting list. And whether he danced with Mavis or my mother or Mildred Rademacher (who couldn’t even do a Courtesy Turn without stepping on her partner’s foot), Mr. Bowman never failed to look graceful and suave.

  I observed him intently the rest of the night. Observation is a great way to improve your dancing skills.

  When the final song had ended, Mr. Bowman came over and told me good-bye.

  “Great to see you, Steven. I appreciated finding a familiar face.”

  He wasn’t even sweating. After two hours of dancing, I was usually wetter than a fish.

  “See you in the morning,” he said.

  The morning meant school.

  All of my fears returned. What if Mr. Bowman announced to our class that he had seen me square-dancing in a VFW basement with my mother? What if he let slip that my nickname was “Geezer”? What if the school discovered I was a second-in-command Bee?

  How many panic attacks could a teenager survive in one night?

  Then again, maybe I had nothing to feel panicky about. Maybe Mr. Bowman wouldn’t say a word. Maybe he was a closet square dancer just like me.

  “Watch for deer, Steven,” warned my mother as I drove us home that night. “They jump out at you when you least expect it.”

  I turned on the high beams in case any suicidal deer were planning to leap out in front of our car.

  “That was a pleasant surprise, meeting your teacher. He seems very nice.”