Absolutely Positively Not

by David LaRochelle

  Mr. Bowman scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve always felt that doors were a lot more dangerous than most people realize. Let’s find a sink and get you cleaned up.”

  He steered me into the nearest boys’ bathroom where I splashed cold water onto my face and washed the blood from my upper lip. He then handed me a damp pad of towels to hold against my nose. “How does that feel?” he asked.

  The only thing I felt was the weight of Mr. Bowman’s hand resting on my shoulder. “It feels pretty good,” I said.

  I could have stood there for hours; eventually, it became clear that my nose had quit bleeding. Mr. Bowman gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “A bloody nose is a good initiation into hockey, Steven.”

  “I’ve heard that,” I said.

  “You should consider going out for the team next year.”

  “I’ll give it some serious thought.”

  He took a black marker from his pocket and wrote me a late pass on a clean paper towel. “Stay clear of those hostile doors,” he advised as he walked off toward the office.

  The pleasant floating feeling that always accompanied being around Mr. Bowman lingered for a moment, then reality took its place. A solid month at the hockey table hadn’t done me a shred of good. I still wasn’t attracted to girls. My peer group of masculine role models had ruthlessly rejected me. What was I supposed to do now?

  Fortunately Trent Beachum was ready with the answer.

  If your son continues to have sexually deviant thoughts despite plenty of positive interaction with male peers, you may very well be feeling frustrated.

  You got that right, Trent.

  There is, however, one last remedy that can work wonders in extreme cases: aversion therapy.

  I was already familiar with aversion therapy from a science program I had seen on PBS. By zapping laboratory rats with a few thousand kilowatts of electricity every time they approached a slab of cheese, scientists had trained them to prefer the taste of freeze-dried lima beans over fresh cheddar. Amazing, but true.

  Luckily Trent Beachum’s approach did not require hooking me up to electrodes.

  Place a sturdy rubber band around your son’s wrist. Whenever an impure thought enters his brain, he should firmly and immediately give the rubber band a quick, sharp snap. Pain will soon lead to pleasure as your son learns to replace immoral desires with healthful ones.

  Dr. Beachum never explicitly spelled out his definition of immoral desires, but fantasies about being an assistant at an Undergear Catalog photo shoot probably qualified in his book.

  The next morning after breakfast I took the rubber band that had been wrapped around the newspaper and slipped it over my wrist. I pulled it back as far as it would go and gave it a practice snap.

  Yow!

  Trent had the pain part right. I hoped the pleasure half of his theory held true as well.

  Since neither of my parents was available to take me to school, I was left riding the bus. When it arrived, I stepped inside the warm vehicle and nodded at Garth, the driver. He nodded back. Garth was an amateur Golden Gloves boxer and was wearing his faded muscle shirt from Vinnie’s Gym and a pair of torn jeans.

  SNAP!

  I sat down. A freshman in front of me was reading the sports section of the paper. Over his shoulder I spotted a photo of two guys in a locker room giving each other bear hugs.

  SNAP!

  I turned my head toward the window. We passed a billboard for Calvin Klein underwear.

  SNAP!

  I closed my eyes. The guys across the aisle were talking about hockey. “If we make it to the state tournament, Coach Bowman says we can throw him in the showers.”

  SNAP! SNAP! SN —

  The rubber band broke. I was less than three blocks from home.

  Fortunately, sitting behind me was Bree Caruthers, sophomore class president, Student of the Month, and Miss Teen Hockey Stick from Beaver Lake Hockey Days. She was also a walking office supply store.

  “Bree, could I borrow a rubber band?”

  She punched an entry into her electronic date book and flipped it shut. “Of course,” she said. She reached into a backpack the size of a steamer trunk. “Which would you prefer: pink, mauve, or blue?”

  “Blue,” I said. Blue was a man’s color.

  She handed me a wide blue rubber band and I stretched it over my fingers. I rolled it down to my wrist and carefully smoothed the rubber so it lay flat and even, just below the wrist bone. I gave it several tugs to test its strength.

  “Good,” I said. “Nice and sturdy.”

  Bree was studying me like a lab specimen.

  “Uh … haven’t you heard?” I said. “Rubber bands are the latest fashion trend. My cousin just returned from Italy and said that everyone in Europe was wearing them. Very, very chic.”

  I covered my wrist with the other hand and stared toward the front of the bus. It was astounding what a skillful liar I had become now that I was on the road to moral thinking.

  I learned one thing very quickly by wearing a rubber band: I had deviant thoughts a lot more often than I realized. About every thirty seconds. Of course Mr. Bowman’s class was a danger area. The hallway between classes was a minefield too. But even biology with Mrs. Tate wasn’t safe. During a movie on the Great Barrier Reef, when we were supposed to be taking notes on the sea life, my mind kept straying to the tanned Australian marine biologist who ran a rehabilitation program for injured sea turtles. Did other guys think about women as much as I thought about men?

  By the end of the day my wrist was as swollen as if it had been attacked by an army of angry wasps. When I boarded the bus to go home, I shielded my eyes so as not to see anyone or anything that might trigger another wayward thought. I did catch a glimpse of Bree talking on her cell phone. Prominently displayed on her right wrist was a mauve rubber band.

  “Hey, you! Have you bought your Beaver Lake Booster Band yet?”

  Bradley Lenihan, student council secretary, confronted me the moment I walked into school. He was stationed at a long table just inside the front doors. Bree Caruthers was behind him, taping a large colorful poster to the wall:

  BEAVER LAKE BOOSTER BANDS! $2 EACH!

  “Everyone in Europe is wearing them,” Bradley informed me, shaking a large wicker basket filled with rubber bands. “It’s the latest fashion trend in Italy. Very, very chic.”

  “Already got one,” I said, holding up my wrist. Today’s rubber band was on my left wrist. If I alternated right wrist/left wrist, maybe I could delay the onset of gangrene.

  “That’s not an official Beaver Lake Band,” said Bradley. He shook the basket with more force. To my untrained eye, the bands in his basket looked exactly the same as the one I was wearing.

  “If you don’t want one for yourself, then buy one for your girlfriend. They’re guaranteed to drive the ladies wild.”

  What choice did I have? I bought three.

  The rubber band craze went ballistic the following week. The cheerleaders sold strawberry-scented rubber bands between classes. The school’s Teens for Christ sold rubber bands at lunch with the initials WWJD? printed on them. The one guy at school who called himself the Atheist League sold black rubber bands on which he had tried to write “Religion is the Opiate of the Masses,” although it was kind of hard to read any of the lettering.

  It wasn’t rare to see kids with a rainbow of fifteen or twenty rubber bands running up and down the length of both arms. You’d think their fingers would have fallen off from the lack of circulation. Other kids showed their solidarity to a particular group by wearing multiple bands of the same color; the more orange and black bands you wore, the bigger basketball fan you were.

  Too bad I hadn’t thought to buy stock in rubber. I could have retired wealthy by the time I got my diploma.

  “Not on your life,” said Rachel. “I’d rather feed my money to a cat.”

  Rachel and I were eating lunch together in the cafeteria. A couple of juniors had approached our table an
d tried to sell her rubber bands that read, STRETCH YOUR MIND — JOIN THE CHESS CLUB.

  “What’s wrong with showing school spirit?” I asked. With the number of rubber bands flooding the school, the single one on my wrist didn’t attract any attention.

  Rachel shook her head. Today’s hair was brilliant orange and clashed fiercely with her purple peace symbol earrings.

  “It has nothing to do with school spirit, Steven. It’s all an attempt to cash in on conformity. Join the herd and buy a band. It’s capitalism at its ugly worst.”

  Even though I didn’t always agree with her opinions, I was glad to be eating with Rachel again. I had forgotten how nice it was to sit with someone who actually included me in her conversation.

  “Who do you think dreams up these ideas?” she asked.

  “Beats me,” I said, taking a sudden interest in my cup of Jell-O salad.

  She offered me one of her homemade biscotti. As I took it, she looked at the band on my wrist.

  “Frankly, Steven, I’m surprised. I’ve always thought you had more sense than to fall for these stupid fads.”

  Not only was I the reason for our school’s rubber band mania, I was also the reason for its demise.

  It was during health class, and we were discussing the chief sources of stress in a teenager’s life.

  “Parents.”

  “School.”

  “The uncertain future of our ailing planet.”

  This last response came from Rachel.

  As kids called out answers, Mr. Bowman listed them on the board. Today he was wearing a pair of navy blue chinos that tightly hugged his narrow hips.

  Time for another snap.

  I gave a pull and the rubber band broke. Frustrating, yes, but by now I had learned to carry a pocketful of spares. This time, however, when the band broke, it went sailing across the room and nailed Mr. Bowman in the exact spot where I had been looking.

  Mr. Bowman stopped writing and placed his hand on his back pants pocket. Then he turned around and faced the class.

  Did Mr. Bowman know it was me? Was I about to face detention? Expulsion? Exile to another homeroom?

  He picked up the rubber band and examined it. Was he looking for fingerprints? I shoved my guilty hands beneath my desk.

  When Mr. Bowman finished his inspection of the rubber band, he announced, “Good. I was afraid this might have been sold by the hockey team. I can only hope that my guys are selling merchandise of a higher quality than this.”

  He tossed the squiggle of rubber onto Corcoran’s desk and resumed his writing.

  My blood began to flow again. Disaster avoided.

  Or so I thought.

  The next hour was geometry with Mrs. Moe. She too was writing at the blackboard when someone pegged her with a rubber band. This time it was definitely not me.

  A few of the guys in the back snickered. The rest of the class held its breath.

  Mrs. Moe turned around and planted her fists firmly on her ample hips.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  How could two simple words sound so deadly?

  That was all it took to end both the laughter and the missile practice. Until next hour. During biology the overhead projector, the chart of the human skeleton, and the stuffed deer head above the clock all suffered multiple hits from well-aimed shots.

  Then came lunch.

  I was standing in the salad bar line when an orange rubber band lobbed across the cafeteria and landed in the middle of the hockey table.

  “Basketball rules!” somebody hollered.

  In less time than it takes to pull the pin from a hand grenade, Dwayne was firing back.

  “Basketball sucks! Hockey is king!”

  His rubber band landed in the applesauce on a cheerleader’s tray.

  After that, it was all-out war.

  Kids climbed onto tables, dove behind trash barrels, made fake death leaps off of chairs. Anything that moved was fair game. It was the gunfight at the O.K. Corral reenacted right there in the cafeteria. All that was missing were a few tumbleweeds and the theme song from High Noon.

  Rubber band sales quadrupled that afternoon. Groups of students huddled in classroom corners, diagramming their battle strategies for an even bigger operation in the lunchroom tomorrow.

  Then, just before the dismissal bell rang, our vice principal, Mr. Cheever, made an unscheduled appearance on the classroom monitors. He looked even grimmer than usual.

  “It has come to our attention that there has been an inordinate proliferation of rubber bands here at Beaver Lake.”

  He held one up to the video camera in case we didn’t know what they looked like.

  “While a rubber band can be a useful tool, it can also be a dangerous, life-threatening weapon. Due to recent student misuse of these objects, and in light of the many students and staff who suffer from serious latex allergies, we have been forced to institute a new zero-tolerance policy. Beginning tomorrow, anyone caught in possession of a rubber band will be subject to an immediate one-day suspension. Subsequent violations will result in police involvement. A letter to this effect is being mailed to your parents.”

  He dropped the offensive weapon into a wastebasket at his feet.

  “We thank you for your understanding in this important issue. Have a nice afternoon.”

  There was no longer any use denying it. I had turned into a hardened criminal. I stole from the public library. I had assaulted my favorite teacher. I had lied to my fellow classmates, including my best friend. And now, every day beneath the cuffs of my sweaters, I was smuggling illegal and dangerous weaponry into the school.

  Might as well sign me up now for a guest spot on America’s Most Wanted.

  “Steven is such a good son,” said my mother.

  She was sitting in our immaculate living room with a reporter from the Beaver Lake Beacon, being interviewed about her Clean Teen book.

  “He’s a wonderful example of how a young person can learn to be just as tidy as any adult.”

  Fifteen minutes earlier I had been rushing from room to room, cleaning as fast as possible. “If you can’t find a place for it, just throw it down the basement,” called my mother as she shoved dirty dishes into the oven while applying lipstick in the microwave’s reflection. We had finished our cleaning blitz only seconds before the reporter arrived at the door.

  “Refreshments?” I asked the young woman, holding out a tray of instant coffee and a platter of cookies.

  She stopped taking notes and helped herself to an Oreo.

  “Not only neat, but polite,” she told my mother. “Some girl is going to get herself a terrific husband.”

  “She certainly is,” said my mom.

  I was naked, standing in the middle of an ice arena. The Beaver Lake hockey team was surrounding me while my family and friends watched from the stands.

  “At the count of three, fire!”

  An unseen female voice with a heavy Norwegian accent led the count.

  When she reached “three,” the hockey players pulled off their gloves and began riddling my body with rubber bands. I couldn’t move, not even to cover myself.

  Suddenly two strong arms embraced me from behind. I was lifted off my feet and into the air. The ice rink and the hockey players and everyone in the stands disappeared as I was carried through the sky to a secluded hill. Once on the ground, my rescuer wrapped me in his warm red cape. When I turned to thank him, I discovered that it wasn’t Superman who had saved me. It was Mr. Bowman.

  “Steven! Wake up!”

  I didn’t want to open my eyes. Once I did, I knew that the safe, comforting sensation of Mr. Bowman’s arms around my chest would vanish. I knew I would no longer be on that secluded hill. I also knew I’d have to snap myself with a blasted rubber band.

  “Steven! You’re going to be late!”

  I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to my desk. I lifted the lid from the antique Superman cookie tin where I stored my school supplies and slipped a
fresh rubber band over my wrist. Half heartedly, I pulled it back.

  Snap.

  My mom was right. I was late for school.

  I might have made it to homeroom on time, but Evan Jenkins and Sue Mason, captains of the boys’ and girls’ basketball teams, were making out in front of my locker. It took them forever to untangle their long arms and legs and move. Add to that the obstacle course of hand-holding couples in the hallway, so that by the time I slid into my seat, I was more than a minute late.

  I hated being late for homeroom.

  “Glad you could make it, Steven.”

  The friendly warmth of Mr. Bowman’s voice made all of my rushing worthwhile. For an instant, I was on that secluded hill again.

  Rats.

  I reached inside the cuff of my sweater, looped a finger beneath the rubber band, and …

  … changed my mind.

  No. I wasn’t going to do that to myself anymore.

  Instead, I opened my notebook and wrote:

  TRENT BEACHUM IS A BIG FAT IDIOT.

  All the weeks of aversion therapy had not changed any of my feelings. Except for one. I had learned to hate rubber bands. From now on, I was a confirmed paper clip user.

  Once and for all, I was through with Trent. If I truly wanted to make sure that I wasn’t gay, there was only one thing left for me to do, and the answer had been all around me. In the halls, in the cafeteria, in the backseat of the school bus. Why hadn’t I noticed it sooner?

  I needed to start dating.

  Everywhere I looked there were couples. Wasn’t it about time that I joined them? After all, how could I know what I was missing unless I gave it a try?

  Armed with my yearbook and a sheet of paper, I began my quest for a suitable dating partner that very afternoon. Flipping through the pages, I jotted down the names of potential candidates. A lot of girls had to be eliminated because they were already dating somebody else, but that still left plenty to consider. The decision wasn’t going to be easy.

  Then I spotted her. A good conversationalist. A thoughtful and considerate person. We even shared a mutual interest in trendy worldwide fashion accessories.