by Jen Klein
“God, I hate that,” says Lily.
“PMGO,” Darbs adds.
“What?” says Lily.
“It’s something I’m trying out,” Darbs tells her.
I can’t take my eyes off the sophomores. “Look how they suck up even while they’re in the act of being demeaned.”
“Gotta be a good sport about it,” Itch says.
“Or it only gets worse,” I say.
Oliver is down there, of course. He’s watching Theo goose-step the smallest sophomore to a chair and plop him into it. When Theo waves him over, Oliver obliges, plunging his hand into the nearest bucket for a sponge.
“They don’t even use warm water,” says Darbs. “It’s ice cold.”
“In good news,” says Itch, “it’s hot today.”
“Nothing about this is good news.” I watch Theo hold out his hand to Oliver, who gives him a can of shaving cream. Theo assumes a widespread pose behind his victim. He shakes the can before his crotch in a suggestive manner.
“No,” says Lily.
“Please don’t,” says Darbs.
Theo lets out a theatrical groan and squirts the shaving cream all over the sophomore’s head. Beside me, Itch gags.
“That is so gross,” I say. I am disgusted by the way everyone casually accepts this public humiliation. I want to run down there and snatch the can and punch Theo in the mouth, but I’m smart enough to know it wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t save the sophomore and it wouldn’t break the tradition. It would only embarrass us both.
So much for Oliver being different.
Oliver hands Theo some sort of shaving device so he can get to work on the hapless head. Theo starts over the ears, and—thank God for small favors—at least he’s going slowly so as not to cut the sophomore. All the others appear to be just hacking away at the hair of their victims, but Theo seems to have some sort of plan.
“He’s an artist,” Itch says. “He’s Picasso.”
“He’s Dickasso,” I say.
“Salvadork Dali,” says Lily.
“He’s Leonardo da…” Darbs’s voice trails off. “Damn. I had one and then I lost it.”
There are hoots from the audience as Theo gets closer to the center of his guy’s head. Lily and I realize what’s happening at the same time.
“Ew!” Lily says while I make a disgusted noise.
Itch shakes his head. “You have got to be kidding.”
“What? What?” Darbs scans the field below us.
Itch nudges her. “June had the best name.”
“What—” Darbs stares at Theo’s victim. She makes the connection. “Ohhhh…”
Theo did, in fact, have a plan. It is becoming horribly clear that he is in the process of shaving the silhouette of a penis and balls onto the unwitting sophomore’s head.
That’s it. I can’t watch any more. I shove the second half of my sandwich back into its reusable wrapper, and I surge to my feet. “I’m going to the library.”
I guess the sudden motion attracts Oliver’s attention, because suddenly he’s looking up at me from where he stands beside Theo. We’re far enough away that his expression isn’t clear, but I can tell he’s definitely staring at me staring at him.
Surely my stance alone tells him how pissed I am.
I lean down to kiss Itch. “I can drive you home,” he says.
“I’ll let Mom know not to pick me up.” I straighten and shoulder my backpack. Against my better judgment, I look at the field one last time.
Oliver has taken Theo’s place behind the sophomore.
I’m going to leave. I want to leave. I need to leave.
And yet I don’t.
I stay and watch as Oliver wields the razor above the sophomore’s head. It’s a show of strength. An act of assholery. The crowd goes wild, clapping and stomping as he flicks his hand first to one side, then the other. He’s warming up. He’s playing to his fans.
I feel sick.
Oliver sets the razor on the side of the sophomore’s head, and he pulls it in a deliberate, straight line from front to back. I see the look on Theo’s face as Oliver quickly switches sides and repeats the motion.
The corners of my mouth turn up of their own accord.
Oliver has rendered what was a silhouette of male genitalia into merely…a Mohawk. He castrated the original design.
He neutered Theo.
Theo’s roar of indignation carries all the way up to us. My smile widens. Below, Oliver hands the razor back to Theo before giving the sophomore a high five.
The glance he flashes up at me could be a peace offering, like my gum, or it could be an apology.
Either way, I accept it.
Itch is suffering through conversation with my mom. I could have told him to show up later, but he spent an entire summer in Florida not talking to his girlfriend’s mom. Ten minutes of polite chatting now won’t kill him.
“I bet your grandparents were thrilled to have you around,” Mom tells him.
“Yeah.”
“Do you help them in the yard or the house or…Do you cook?” Mom cocks her head at him like an inquisitive sparrow.
I answer for him. “He bakes. What were those things called, Itch? The little pastries?”
“Kiflice.” He glances at Mom. “They’re basically Serbian croissants.”
“That’s so nice!” Mom exclaims. “Maybe we can exchange recipes…June, did you see where I put the paint samples?”
She jumps topics so fast it takes me a second to catch up and realize someone is knocking at the front door. “I think they’re on the buffet.”
“Cash is here,” Mom says.
Itch looks at me and mouths the word: “Cash?”
“Her contractor,” I say out loud.
“My friend,” Mom says, and then calls out, “Come in!”
A couple minutes later, Cash the contractor has greeted us, found the paint samples, and deposited Mom into the passenger seat of his old putty-colored pickup truck (“Made right here in Michigan!” Cash said when I first met him). Itch and I wave from the porch as they drive off in a cloud of road dust. The minute it dissipates, Itch pulls me in for a kiss.
I know some parents won’t leave their kid alone in the house with a significant other because of STDs and teenage pregnancies and whatnot, but my mother has a different strategy. Her weapon of choice is conversation. She talks to me about sex every chance she gets.
Every. Chance.
Mom says I am in charge of my own body and what I do with it is my business. She gave me The Talk way earlier than any of my friends got it, and she also put a box of condoms in my nightstand before I’d even kissed a boy (other than Oliver in kindergarten). She believes it’s better to have them early than too late. Turns out there is such a thing as too early, though, because by the time I needed those condoms toward the end of last year, they’d expired.
Luckily, Itch had some of his own.
All that being said, it’s not like Mom lets me spend the night with Itch or anything. A few daylight hours in an empty house is about the most I can hope for. She’s not a total hippie.
Itch and I drag two quilts and a pile of pillows onto the family room floor to fashion a fool-around nest for ourselves, and then he dorks around with the remote control until he finds a horror movie. Both of us know we’re not actually going to watch it, but this is how we’ve always prefaced our physical interactions: by first pretending we’re going to do something less intimate.
“What do you think of the house?” I ask once the movie is playing on mute.
“It’s cool. Way bigger than your last place.”
“Yeah, I actually have my own bathroom here.”
“But it sucks that it’s so far away.”
“Only twenty minutes from school.”
“Thirty minutes from me,” he says, and I am reminded that he wants me near, that my proximity is desirable. The way he wants me makes me feel worthy of being wanted. It makes me want him. I’
m starting to tug him toward me when he says something else. “And now you have to drive with that douchebag every morning.”
I have an errant flash of protectiveness, a desire to defend Oliver. After all, there was the Mohawk. “He’s not that bad.” Itch makes his snorting sound that means he’s not buying something. “No, really. I don’t think he’s like all the other muscle heads. He’s definitely smarter than I thought.”
“Really.” It’s not a question the way Itch says it. “Because I haven’t seen him around the AP classes.”
“I haven’t seen you around the AP classes.” I kiss him on the neck so he knows it’s a joke. He doesn’t answer, because he’s more interested in rolling on top of me and not watching the movie.
This is why teenagers get a bad rap.
This time, it’s Oliver who has an idea when I climb aboard. “We disagree about music, right?”
“Very much so.”
“And also about what constitutes meaning in our high school life.”
“Does Theo know you use big words when he’s not around?” Oliver flicks a gum wrapper at me and I flinch backward with a squeal. “Really, what do you see in that dipshit?”
“We’ve been friends since middle school,” Oliver tells me. “We have a history.”
“Our country has a history of denying women’s rights and smoking on airplanes and allowing cousins to marry. Doesn’t mean we still adhere to those things.”
“Are you going to behold my genius or what?” Oliver unlocks his phone and hands it over.
I take it with a show of trepidation and tap the screen to find that his music app is open. In the center of the screen is an icon with the title Sunrise Songs. “All I behold is a cheesy name.”
“Open it.”
I do, but it’s empty, which doesn’t make any sense. “Explanation, please.”
“This is the solution to all our problems. This is the grand prize for the person who proves that their life philosophy is true.”
“This is a playlist,” I tell him.
“Exactly.”
“Are you high?”
Oliver shakes his head. “Keeping my body pure for the football field.”
“Please don’t flex your muscles again.”
But of course he does.
“It’s our morning playlist,” he says. “We’ll listen to it on the drive to school.”
“And yet there are no songs on this playlist,” I tell him. “It’s empty.”
“That’s the part where I’m a genius.”
“That’s the part I find most hard to believe.”
“Listen,” he says. “Learn.”
“Lame,” I say, but wait for him to explain.
“You think high school doesn’t matter. I know that it does.” Oliver pokes me lightly in the arm. “Anytime one of us can find a reason to support our side of that particular conversation—”
“Argument.”
“Whatever. We get to add a song to this playlist. Then we can let it shuffle and repeat in the mornings. More wins for you means more of your screamy music on the list.”
I’m skeptical. “But the argument—”
“Conversation.”
“It’s subjective. There’s no definitive answer. I will naturally come up with brilliant ways to prove that I am right”—Oliver snorts—“but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll concur.”
“We’ll have a gentleman’s agreement.”
This time, I am the one who snorts. “You hang out with people who shave male parts onto people’s heads. Nothing about you is gentlemanly.”
He gives me a look of mock offense. “Everything about me is gentlemanly. But fine. We’ll just find someone who can be objective.”
“I nominate Itch,” I say.
“Then I nominate Ainsley.”
I sigh. “Obviously my answer is no.”
“And obviously mine is the same.”
I look down at his phone again. It’s a fun idea; I’ll give him that. It adds a little competition to our morning routine. I mull over the details. “I have some additional rules.”
“Hit me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I hold up a finger. “Proofs may only be given on school premises and during school hours. First bell to last bell. I don’t want you drunk-texting me in the middle of the night.”
“What about football games?” Oliver asks. “School dances? Pep rallies?”
“Approved.” It’s an easy give, since I wouldn’t be caught dead at any of those. “If we are both present at a school-sanctioned event, it can be considered legitimate grounds for offering a proof.”
“I have one more rule to add,” Oliver says. “One shot per day. I don’t want to be overwhelmed by your screamo.” I smile at him. “What?”
“You think I’m going to win.”
“In your dreams, Rafferty.”
• • •
I’m waiting outside the family sciences room when Oliver emerges. He looks surprised to see me. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” I tell him. “Except for this: college.”
Oliver blinks. “College?”
“College. Classes are harder. Relationships are more important.”
“That is subjective.”
“Also, you can drink openly at a bar. My point is that everything happening now will just happen again in college but will be bigger and better. Don’t you see? College itself nullifies the importance of high school….What?”
Oliver is shaking his head. “Really? This is your opening shot?”
“It’s legit!”
“It’s weak.”
I glare at him. “You said you were going to be a gentleman about this.”
“We need a judge.”
“An impartial judge,” I remind him.
“I’ll ask around. Please consider your first proof as remaining unconfirmed.”
He heads down the hallway. “Not Theo!” I call after him, and he waves back at me over his shoulder.
• • •
Over lunch, Darbs regales us with a description of how Yana-the-new-girl is definitely vibing her. “It’s her hair,” she tells Itch and Lily and me.
I’m sure everyone else’s look of confusion mirrors my own. I search my memory. “Blond, right?”
“Honey blond,” Darbs says dreamily. “Golden blond. Long and straight but not too straight. A little tangled, like she’s been at the beach, lying out in the sun…” Her voice trails off. Lily and I exchange glances. Darbs shakes out of her reverie. “Except get this: today she comes into English and she picks a new seat. There are plenty of open chairs—plenty—but she doesn’t go to the one in the third row by the windows, where she’s been every other day. No, she turns left and she walks past the bookshelves, and she sits directly in front of me.”
“Is there any chance,” Itch asks through a mouthful of pizza, “any chance at all that she simply wanted a different vantage point?” I elbow him in the ribs. “What? It’s a legitimate question.”
“You’re a legitimate asshole,” Darbs informs him. “She made a deliberate choice to be near me. I could tell.”
We’re all thinking the same thing, but I’m the one who says it. “How?”
“I’m glad you asked,” says Darbs. “We didn’t make eye contact—”
“Huh,” says Itch.
“Shut up,” Lily tells him. “Go on, Darbs.”
“—but right after she sat down, she kind of moved her head a little so her hair would swing around. You know, so she’d have my attention.”
Darbs is definitely a little crazy, but she’s also my friend. She deserves respect. “Then what?”
“She’s got like five elastic bands around her wrist. She slides the purple one off…” Darbs gestures to her indigo head. “Purple.”
“Hold on,” Itch says. “If she’s sitting in front of you and facing forward, how can you even see any of this?”
Darbs gives him a solemn look. “She’s angled in her
seat. Like just a little diagonally.”
We all sit in silence for a moment, until Lily points something out: “You were tilted forward, weren’t you? You craned.”
“Fine.” Darbs shrugs. “I craned, whatever. Anyway, she lifts her hands back to her hair, and she does it all slow and sexy-like. She pulls her hair up into a ponytail and guess what?” Darbs pauses theatrically.
“What?” This time, Lily and I both ask. Itch only shakes his head.
“Like four or maybe even five strands of her hair underneath are dyed.”
“Purple?” I ask.
“Well…blue,” says Darbs. “But dark blue. Navy blue. In the rainbow, it’s next to purple.” She sits back and folds her arms. “Totally vibing me.”
“Totally vibing you,” Lily and I agree.
“What the hell,” says Itch.
I turn to admonish him, because that’s just rude, but I see that he’s not talking to us. He’s looking at something.
It’s Shaun, making his way up the bleachers toward us, which would be totally normal, except that Oliver is following him.
Holding a tray.
For no reason whatsoever, light heat prickles up my neck and into my cheeks. I duck my head and take a bite of my sandwich to camouflage my (ridiculous) reaction.
Even the losers on the first row are watching with curiosity as Shaun and Oliver plop down with us. Shaun gives a general wave to the whole group, but Oliver greets everyone individually by name, except for Darbs. He juts out a hand to her. “I’m Oliver. I don’t think we’ve ever actually spoken.”
Darbs doesn’t take his hand. “I know who you are.”
Oliver lowers his arm. The moment stretches into a standoff, both of them unmoving, staring straight at each other. I catch myself wondering if Darbs is noticing the gray part of his eyes also.
She points to her head. “How do you like my hair?”
He looks her over. “Cool. Last year was green, right?”
“Turquoise.” Darbs holds out a bag. “Chips?”
“Thanks.” Oliver takes one and the moment is over.