He still felt depressed about the outdoor ed meeting—his dad’s crack about the teddy bear, his own crack to Marcia about the zit on her face. How was he supposed to let Marcia know he was sorry without actually coming out and saying he was sorry? Because here was one time when an apology would only make things worse. “That crack I made about the ugly red pimple on your forehead? The one you were hoping nobody would notice? Well, I’m sorry I made it.”
Still, Alex tried to rouse himself for Dave’s sake. If Dave wanted a plan, Alex would come up with a plan.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said.
“What?” Dave’s face brightened with anticipation.
Alex’s plans were always good ones. And this one, devised in less than half a minute, promised to be one of his best.
“I don’t think I want to hear this,” Alex’s mother said. Luckily, they had reached the middle school. “Remember, they won’t let you go to outdoor ed if your behavior isn’t up to West Creek standards.”
“Oh, Mom. Chill.”
“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Ryan.” Dave was a big one for “please” and “thank you” around parents.
They got out of the car, and Alex’s mom drove away.
“Well?” Dave asked.
“Our mission, if we are willing to accept it, is to see how many times we can get a teacher to use class time discussing underwear. We start today, finish a week from today. Underwear Week at West Creek Middle School. Are you ready to join me in accepting the mission?”
“I’m in.” Dave burst out laughing. “Ryan, did anyone ever tell you you were crazy? Completely crazy?”
Alex grinned. “I believe you may have mentioned it from time to time.”
He felt better already.
First period Alex had P.E., his favorite subject. He decided to postpone implementing the underwear plan until second period. Coach Krubek was the one teacher Alex didn’t want to annoy.
That day they were doing a long-distance run around the school neighborhood. It was a perfect May morning, with new soft-green leaves on every tree and lilacs in bloom everywhere. Alex started out a little too fast, as he always did, then slowed down to pace himself. His feet hit the pavement in an easy, rhythmic stride. After the first mile or so, he got the same feeling he always did: that he could run like this forever, strong, steady, not talking to the guy next to him, not even thinking, just feeling his heart beat, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing, moving one foot after the other. Life was so simple when he was running.
Life stopped being simple in second-period English. They were in the middle of a unit on poetry.
“All right,” Ms. Singpurwalla said. “I’ll give you ten minutes to write something in your poetry notebooks. Then we’ll spend the rest of the time talking about the form of a sonnet.”
Alex opened his poetry notebook. Didn’t you have to be inspired to write a poem? How could Ms. S. expect them to pull out a pen and just start writing? He’d rather look at Ms. S. than write. She was Alex’s only good-looking teacher: young, with dark hair and dark eyes, usually dressed in a sexy-looking sari.
He snuck a look at Marcia, who was in his English class, too. He tried to catch her eye to offer a sheepish, hangdog grin, but she was staring in the opposite direction. As far as he could tell, her pimple looked a little better. Maybe she had squeezed it, though his mother always said not to.
“Alex,” Ms. S. called to him in her low, musical voice. “This is our time to write.”
“I don’t know what to write about.”
Then suddenly he did. Of course. On the top of his blank page he wrote the title to his poem, “Ode to Underwear.” They hadn’t studied odes yet in the poetry unit, but he had learned about them from Lizzie Archer. She was always writing odes. She used to write them to Ethan. For a while last fall, Alex had thought that maybe Lizzie had been writing odes to him. The idea wasn’t as terrible as he would have expected it to be. But then she switched her affections to Tom Harris, another brain.
Alex turned back to his own poem. Poets were always using flowery words to describe things. What was a flowery word for underwear? Alex tried to think of any ads he had seen. A lot of ad writers were poetic in their word choices, too. Intimate apparel. Ha! That was good. Alex wrote it down. And there was some other French-sounding word for underwear. It came to him. But how did you spell it?
This was Alex’s moment. Hoping Dave was paying attention, he waved his hand. “How do you spell longer-ray?”
“L-i-n-g-e-r-i-e,” Ms. S. said, apparently without thinking.
Across the room, Dave gave his trademark guffaw. Dave had a great laugh. Someone should hire him for a laugh track on a sitcom.
Alert now, Ms. S. came over to Alex’s desk and glanced down at his paper. He looked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence. After all, she herself had said that a poem could be on any subject, that no object was too ordinary or insignificant to be the topic of a poem.
“Let’s find you another topic,” Ms. S. said, her voice gentle but firm. So some topics were unsuitable for poetry.
“Like what? What’s wrong with underwear? Why can’t I write a poem about underwear?”
Ignoring the question, Ms. S. suggested, “You’re a runner, aren’t you? I’ve seen you out with the track team. Why don’t you write a poem about running?”
Alex shook his head. The way he felt about running was private.
“How about springtime, then? ‘Ode to Spring.’”
Oh, man.
Two minutes later, the poem was done. It had turned out pretty well, all things considered.
Ode to Spring
O spring!
The snow is slushy.
The mud is mushy.
How I sneeze
In the breeze.
I blow my nose
On my clothes.
My nose snorts
On my boxer shorts.
O spring!
O spring!
“Does anyone want to share his or her poem with the rest of the class?” Ms. S. asked.
Alex waved his hand. Ms. S. didn’t call on him. She called on Lizzie, who had a poem about a daffodil whose fragile golden blossoms had been eaten by a hungry newborn deer.
He caught Marcia glancing his way and tried his sheepish, hangdog grin again. Marcia looked through him as if he weren’t there.
3
ALEX AIMED AT SCORING one more underwear reference before lunch.
Third-period math with Mr. Grotient was pretty hopeless, unless Alex could come up with a word problem: “Let x equal the number of bras on sale this week at Target. Let y equal the number of Jockey briefs sold since November …”
Alex gave up there. He was good at math, but not that good. Maybe he could ask Lizzie to help him think of how to use algebra to combine x units of bras and y units of Jockey briefs in some clever way.
He looked at Lizzie, staring down at her paper with intense concentration, as if the math problem in front of her were another poem she was writing in the notebook she carried everywhere. Now wasn’t the best time to ask Lizzie to help devise an underwear word problem.
Marcia was in math class, too, but Alex wasn’t about to ask her for help, either. Definitely not for help in math. And definitely not for help today.
Fourth-period social studies was more promising. They were learning about the ancient peoples of North America, such as the Anasazi, the cliff-dwelling people who had lived in the dry canyons of the Southwest while Europe was still in the Dark Ages.
That day Mrs. Martin, their kindly, plump, middle aged teacher, started talking about the everyday life of the Anasazi. Alex saw his opening. What was more a part of everyday life than underwear? Alex’s mom made him change his own underwear every single day, even if it was perfectly clean.
Alex waited patiently until Mrs. Martin started talking about the clothing that would have been worn by the Anasazi: animal skins in winter; in summer, practically nothing.
; Alex waved his hand. This time Dave started laughing before Alex had a chance to say anything. “What about underwear? Did they wear underwear?” Alex asked.
Dave wasn’t the only one snickering now.
“Certainly both men and women wore loincloths most of the time in the summer,” Mrs. Martin said, making a valiant effort to ignore the general level of hilarity in the room. “I’m not sure whether they continued to wear them in the winter, underneath their other garments. What’s really interesting, I think, is that the Anasazi used the supple bark of the juniper tree to make soft, absorbent diapers for their babies.”
“Did they wash them?” Dave called out. “Or just throw them out and make new ones? You know, like disposables?”
Alex had been wondering whether Dave was going to make any underwear contributions of his own, or be content to admire Alex’s. He was glad to have Dave’s help in keeping the conversation going.
“Oh, this was not a culture in which anything was discarded that could be used again. We’re a long way from Pampers here, believe you me. Any other questions?”
Alex couldn’t think of any. Apparently Dave couldn’t, either. But they had already achieved their goal.
After fifth-period lunch came sixth-period family living. Earlier in the year, the class had done sewing, cooking, and some simple home repairs. Now they were doing first aid, to prepare for outdoor ed.
In family living, Marcia was going to have to acknowledge Alex’s existence in some way. Alex, Marcia, Ethan, Julius, Lizzie, and a girl named Alison Emory all sat together at the same table as part of the same make-believe family; they had worked together, the six of them, since the first day of school.
Alex wasn’t sure he was ready for family living today. Marcia wasn’t in his social studies class, so fourth period had been a welcome break from guilt.
“Class,” Ms. Van Winkle said in her brisk, energetic way. “Today we are going to practice bandaging a broken arm. We bandage a broken arm in order to immobilize the joint and prevent further injury. I’ll put you in pairs to begin practicing.”
Alex’s heart sank. With his luck, he’d get Marcia as his partner. He just knew it.
Partly to stall for time, partly to carry out the plan, even though Dave wasn’t in the same family-living class, Alex once again waved his hand in the air. He was becoming quite the participant in class activities.
“Yes, Alex?” Ms. Van Winkle for some reason seemed less than thrilled to be calling on him. But she couldn’t possibly know that he had underwear on his mind.
“If we don’t have a first-aid kit with us, what should we do to make bandages? Should we take off our clothes and rip them into pieces?”
Sitting next to Alex, Julius gave a low chuckle.
“Actually, that’s a good question,” said Ms. Van Winkle. “It would depend on the seriousness of the injury, of course, but if you needed to immobilize a joint and you had no other materials at hand, yes, I’m sure your parents would understand if you sacrificed an article of clothing. T-shirts or undershirts would probably work best for this purpose.”
Satisfied, Alex made a mental note to tell Dave. Undershirts , he said to himself. Undershirts counted as underwear.
“All right, then. Let’s get started.” Ms. Van Winkle began to circulate from table to table, distributing rolls of bandages and assigning partners. Alex made sure that he practically had his arm around Julius when Ms. Van Winkle stopped at their table. Julius was a klutz, but better Julius than Marcia. Better anyone, today, than Marcia.
“Alison, work with Lizzie. Ethan, you work with Julius. Alex, work with Marcia.”
It was little comfort that he had been right. Any way you looked at it, he was doomed. There must be a curse on the Ryan family. His sister was cursed to have a boyfriend whom their father detested. Alex was cursed to spend the next forty minutes bandaging and being bandaged by a girl who was perfectly justified in hating him. Would she even be willing to touch him? It would be hard to bandage a person without touching him.
Alex took the plunge. “Do you want to bandage me first, or should I bandage you?”
For answer, Marcia stuck her arm out toward him in icy silence, as she continued to stare fixedly in the opposite direction.
Alex decided to pretend he didn’t notice that Marcia was giving him the silent treatment. He’d be his usual amusing self, and perhaps she’d come around. Until his unfortunate zit remark, he and Marcia had always gotten along pretty well. It had been flattering to have the prettiest girl in the seventh grade asking him to dance at school dances. And once Dave had intercepted a note Marcia was passing to her best friend, Sarah Kessel. “Don’t you think Alex Ryan is soooo cute?” the note had said. Marcia wasn’t acting as if she thought Alex was cute now.
“Which arm is broken, madam?”
Marcia emphatically wiggled the arm she had already thrust out at him.
“It doesn’t look broken, madam.”
“Well, it is,” Marcia snapped at him. At least snapping was speaking.
“Um … could you bend it a little? I have to get it in a sling, you know.”
Marcia moved her outstretched arm and let it hang at an awkward angle. It did look broken now.
“Aha!” Alex said. “What is this I see? Can it be—a broken arm in need of bandaging?” He could tell Marcia was struggling not to smile.
Alex paused a bit longer to check out the rest of their family-living team. Smart, sensible Alison had already wrapped her bandage around Lizzie’s arm as neat as neat could be. Julius was still bandaging Ethan’s arm; that bandage hung off Ethan in crazy, tangled loops.
“Nice bandage, Zimmerman,” Alex said. He couldn’t help himself.
Julius grinned sheepishly. This was not the first time someone had pointed out to Julius that he was a klutz. And as often as not, that someone was Alex.
Alex started wrapping Marcia’s arm, beginning with the hand. It felt odd to be touching a girl’s smooth, bare skin in such a matter-of-fact way. Was she thinking the same thing? Was she glad, after all, that they had gotten each other as arm-bandaging partners? He made himself look at her face, trying not to let his eyes fall on her forehead.
“Ow!” Marcia said, jerking her supposedly broken arm away. With her other hand, she smoothed her bangs firmly in place. She was certainly showing no great signs of gladness.
“Ow?” Alex grabbed Marcia’s arm back again. “A broken arm is always somewhat painful, madam.”
“You’re supposed to be putting on a bandage, not a tourniquet. You’re cutting off all the blood to my fingers.”
Alex didn’t think his bandage was that tight. “Madam wants blood in her fingers?”
As if out of habit, Marcia gave one half-giggle. But she still looked close to tears.
Ms. Van Winkle bustled over to check their work.
“Excellent, Alison. Let’s see your arm, Ethan.”
Alex waited to see what she would say to Julius. Julius, I’d advise you never to perform first aid on anyone unless you want a lawsuit on your hands. Alex knew all about lawsuits from his dad. He knew about humiliating cracks from his dad, too.
“Julius, I don’t think Ethan’s arm is really immobilized. Ethan, can you move your hand?”
Ethan waggled his fingers so vigorously that the entire bandage slipped off his arm and lay in loose coils on the floor.
“Yes,” Alex answered for Ethan. “He can move his hand.”
“Try it again, Julius,” Ms. Van Winkle told him. She turned to project her voice to the whole class. “Remember, when you go to outdoor ed the week after next, you may very well need these skills. If you’re out in the wilderness with no medical personnel nearby, your skills may mean the difference between someone’s life and death.”
Under his breath, Julius said to their team, “For some reason, I don’t find that comment reassuring.”
“Man,” Alex said. “If the difference between someone’s life and death depends on Zimmerman, then …”
Instead of completing the sentence, he drew his fingers across his throat in a sinister knifelike motion.
Alison smiled politely, but Alex felt that his remark had generally fallen flat. Julius had already pretty much conceded that he stank at first aid.
“Alex, how are you doing with Marcia?”
Terrible, Alex thought, but didn’t say anything.
“It’s too tight,” Marcia said miserably.
Ms. Van Winkle bent over for a closer look. “You want the bandage tight enough to keep the arm and hand from moving, but not so tight you cut off circulation.” She turned to the class. “Make sure your bandages aren’t too tight. If you cut off blood flow, you can do permanent damage to the hand. The first rule of first aid is not to make the injury even worse.”
As Ms. Van Winkle hurried off to the next group, Alex tried to think of something funny to say so the others wouldn’t think he had been bothered by the teacher’s remarks. What could he say? Something else about underwear? If only Dave were in his family-living family instead of Ethan or Julius. Instead of Marcia. Was she ever going to give up sulking over one little comment about one little zit?
In seventh-period science class, there seemed no way to work underwear into the lab, which involved testing the pH of different common substances, like vinegar and milk. In eighth-period chorus, when they were singing “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific, Alex changed the first line to “Some enchanted girdle.” The guys standing nearest to him started laughing. But he didn’t sing it loud enough for crabby old Mrs. Overton to hear. Besides, Dave wasn’t in chorus, so there was really no point.
Finally school was over. Alex hurried to the locker room to change into his running shorts and sleeveless T-shirt. Ten minutes later, he was out running laps around the quarter-mile track with the rest of the team. At first, as he ran, he counted how many underwear references he had made: four, all told, including “Some enchanted girdle.” Then he started thinking about the apology he hadn’t made. Didn’t Marcia know how sorry he was? How much longer was she going to make him pay?
Alex Ryan, Stop That! Page 2