by Alan Sitomer
“We’re not best friends, Finkelstein.”
“See?” he answered. “Withholding.”
We stood in the center of the crowded hall. A banner made of blue paper advertising the Big Dance in red and black Magic Marker writing had been taped to the wall.
Of course, I couldn’t tell Finkelstein that Allison had agreed to go to the dance with me. It would simply break the poor kid’s heart to discover I had a date and he didn’t, but the fact is, I don’t think God had yet invented the girl crazy enough to attend a school dance with Alfred Finkelstein. Sure, he pretended not to care about all the rejection, but deep down, I am sure he was sad about being turned down so many times. Knowing that, I decided to keep the fact that I had a Big Dance date a secret and listen to his poem, just so I didn’t hurt his feelings.
“You know what, Finkelstein, I’m in a good mood today. Why not? Hit me with this English-class poem of yours. If it’s good enough, maybe I’ll steal it, because I haven’t even given two seconds of thought to mine yet.”
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh.”
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“I knew you were going to want to hear it.”
“Shut up, Finkelstein.”
“Farts,” he began.
The wind in my hair
The wind from my rear
Winds merging
Farts
The gas at an Exxon
The gas that I pass on
Gas you can count on
Farts
The stink of a cheese
The stink when my mom says, “Oh, Alfred, please”
They stink like a flower does for bees
Farts
He stopped. I guess that was the end.
“Finkelstein, you’re the worst poet this planet has ever produced.”
“He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh. Doesn’t matter what you think,” he said. “My goal is to score chicks.”
“And you think you’re going to score chicks with a fart poem?” I said.
“Beautiful words are beautiful words, Bobby, and chicks dig poetry,” he answered. “I mean look at all the ugly guys that write lyrics and sing in bands. They score chicks like crazy. And why?”
“Because they’re not you?” I said.
“Because of poetry, Bobby,” he replied. “Chicks love poetry. Never forget that.”
Suddenly, Finkelstein darted across the hall.
“Hey, Caroline, wanna hear some romantic words that’ll make your heart melt and your top accidentally fall off?”
“Eat cow dump, brace face.”
Before Finkelstein could even make another plea, Caroline Shea, a girl with only nine and a half fingers due to some kind of exercise bicycle accident when she was four years old, rushed away.
Finkelstein walked back over to me.
“She wants to taste my taste buds.”
“I can see that,” I said. We started walking toward PE, but since we still had twelve minutes left for Nutrition Break we were in no hurry. Finkelstein took out a package of cherry Pop-Tarts. Me, a bag of M&M’s.
Peanut, of course.
“That poem is due next week, you know,” he told me, taking a bite.
“I’ll get to it,” I said, tearing open the yellow M&M bag. “I’ll get to it.”
Suddenly, we heard a loud scream in the hall.
“YAAAAAYYYYYY! WAAA-HOOOOOO!”
It was Angie Rumpkin, a girl known for her big earrings, big bracelets and even bigger mouth.
“A Secret Someone! I got a Secret Someone!! Yesssss!” she screamed.
Angie dashed down the hall holding an invite to the Big Dance in her hand like it was some kind of winning lottery ticket.
“Aw, man,” Finkelstein said. “Bobby, we gotta do something to score chicks for the Big Dance.”
“How ’bout doing the Secret Someone thing?” I suggested.
“Naw,” said Finkelstein. “That’s cheating. I mean I wanna ask a girl to the dance and have her say yes to my face.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Because what happens if they say yes and then see that their Secret Someone is a total loser that they don’t really want to go to the dance with in the first place? Then the whole thing gets weird, ’cause you’re with someone who really doesn’t want to be with you.”
“Nobody wants to be with you, Finkelstein,” I explained. “You do realize that, right?”
“You’re so funny I forgot to laugh, Bobby,” he said.
“I’m not being funny, Finkelstein,” I answered. “I’m just making a scientifically provable point.”
“Okay, let’s be honest for a minute,” he said. “I’m not the world’s most handsome gentleman.”
“Your face looks like a monkey’s butt, Finkelstein.”
“Can you try to stay focused with me here for a second, please?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “My apologies. Go on.”
“And I admit, my standards are low,” he continued. “I mean I’ll take anyone to the Big Dance. I don’t care if she’s fat, smelly, pimply or cross-eyed. I really don’t care.”
“So then why not give a Secret Someone out?” I said.
“Because the chances to slurp face go way down if you go the mystery-invite route,” he explained to me. I could tell he had spent a lot of time thinking about this whole thing. “But this way, if I ask someone and she says yes, secretly, we both know this means that in the middle of the dance floor I can expect to suck such deep face with her that she’ll be able to identify what I had for breakfast.”
“You really are Mr. Romance. I mean, I am just amazed that girls are not flocking to you.”
“Nope,” he replied as we made our way toward the gymnasium. “I’m gonna do it the old-fashioned way. No mystery envelope, Secret Someone, fooling a chick into going to the Big Dance with me. I’m gonna ask and ask and ask until I hear a yes. Hey, I’m seeing the orthodontist today, but let’s get together after school tomorrow and map out a plan for the two of us.”
“Can’t,” I said. “Have therapy.”
“Aw, man, this is important,” he answered. “Can’t you get out of it?”
“I wish.”
“That blows.”
“Sure does.”
Michelle Delphers approached from up the hall. She wore red sneakers with a double set of shoelaces, one pair red, and one pair white, on each of her feet. It was the latest style.
Finkelstein jumped in front of her.
“Hey, Michelle, wanna go to the Big Dance with me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Alfred,” Michelle replied in a kindly tone. “I’m already going with Jeffrey Corbin.”
“But you would have, right?” Finkelstein said in a hopeful way.
Michelle smiled warmly. “Not a chance,” she answered. “No no way way ever, ever, ever.”
Michelle started back down the hall.
“She didn’t have to double up her words like that,” I said to Finkelstein.
“She only did it because she wants to taste my taste buds,” Finkelstein replied.
“Clearly,” I said.
Finkelstein looked troubled. And he was starting to get desperate. Girls hate desperate. It’s like bad cologne.
Jimmy Morgan, the left fielder on my summer league baseball team, walked by and nodded to me, but then kept going. Clearly, I was still an outcast to all of my other so-called friends. None of them were ready to actually stop and be seen talking to me yet.
Except Finkelstein. That got me thinking.
“You know, you really oughtta consider a Secret Someone,” I said, trying to help him out. “I mean, these things were invented for morons like you.”
Finkelstein took another bite of his cherry Pop-Tart.
“Bobby,” he said. “I ain’t giving up. It only takes one yes before I’m tasting taste buds.”
Just then, I saw Allison walking up the hall.
“Besides, I don’t see any ladies flocking
to you,” Finkelstein added.
“Um, yeah, you’re right. Look, Finkelstein,” I said distractedly, “I gotta go.”
“What?” said Finkelstein. “Where? What about PE?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“But . . . Oooh,” he said in a sly voice once he saw I was heading toward Allison. “Still working on putting a hunk of butter on that piece of cheese toast, are you?”
“What are you talking about, Finkelstein?”
“Chicks dig persistence. Good plan, Bobby,” he said. “Me, I’ve been too easy to give up.”
Finkelstein then ran up to the first girl he saw.
“Hey, Pauline, if you don’t go to the Big Dance with me, I am gonna stalk you,” he said. “So say yes now or say yes at two o’clock in the morning when I am in a tree outside your bedroom window singing out-of-key love songs.”
Pauline dropped her books and got into a tae kwon do stance. “Stay clear, Alfred,” she said. “I know martial arts because of people like you.”
“Oh, what, are you gonna hit me?” he said.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned.
“You mean I can’t even touch you like this?” Finkelstein extended his finger.
“Don’t do it.”
“You mean don’t do this?” he said, moving his finger even closer.
“I’m warning you, Alfred,” she said as his finger inched closer. “Do not make physical contact with me.”
“You mean not even contact like this?” Finkelstein said with a smile on his face. His finger was less than a centimeter from her forearm.
“Alfred . . .”
And then he did it. He touched her.
First there was a yell. “Hii-yaa!”
Then there was a scream. “Ouch!”
Finkelstein raised his hands to his neck and struggled to speak. “You just . . . punched me in the throat.”
“Kee-daahh!” Pauline said, firing again.
“Ouch! Stop!”
“This was on the green belt test,” Pauline said. “Hoy-ya!” She attacked with a series of moves.
Finkelstein screamed like a girl. “I have tender collarbones. Ouch!”
Finkelstein, brave hero that he is, ran off. Pauline chased right behind him. Some girls, as Finkelstein was learning, you just don’t mess with.
But other girls you do. You definitely do.
“Hi-hi,” I said with a smile as Allison approached.
“Hi-hi,” she answered. For the first time ever I didn’t feel nervous or scared talking to a girl. Of course, I was super-excited, but also, I felt like, well . . . I just felt like I could kinda be myself.
I offered her some M&M’s.
“Peanut?” she said, looking at the bag.
“Of course,” I said, popping one in my mouth. “It’s the only kind I eat.”
She smiled and stretched out her hand. “Me too,” she said. “Peanut or nothing.”
I poured a few into her palm. “You walking home later?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “You?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered. “Wanna maybe walk together?” I tossed a red M&M into my mouth. “I mean, usually my helicopter picks me up, but today, I guess I could make an exception.”
“Oh, an exception, huh?” she said, eating a blue one.
I couldn’t believe I had come up with such a smooth line.
“I like your ponytail,” I told her.
“Thanks.”
Oh my God, I’ve never operated like this around the ladies in my entire life. Suddenly, my sister approached.
“Mom said to tell you that your therapy appointment has been—”
“Okay,” I said, cutting her off. “Got it. Thank you. See you at home.”
Hill kept talking. And I kept trying to stop her.
“And that you need to—”
“O-kay,” I interrupted, reaching over to cover her mouth. “Got the message, loud and clear.”
She pushed my hand away.
“And that when you get to—”
“Got it,” I said. “Got it, got it. Muchas gracias.”
“Stop, ya freak!” Hill snapped at me. “And quit touching me with your grubby hands. Who knows how many times they’ve been down your pants today.” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “I hope you washed.”
I looked at Allison and faked a laugh. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
“Shut up, Bobby,” Hill said. “Just shut up for a stupid minute ’cause I don’t want to be here talking to you any more than you want to be talking to me, and Nutrition Break is almost over. But Mom told me to tell you that your pecker therapist changed your appointment.”
“Okay, moving along now . . .”
“And don’t give me attitude, either,” she said. “I mean, I’m not the one who’s got the entire neighborhood thinking that we’re a family of perverts.”
“Great to see ya. Appreciate the time . . .” I pushed her away.
“Take your hands off me, jerk. Your psycho appointment with the wacko doctor is now today instead of tomorrow. Mom said don’t be late ’cause the therapist is still mad about you popping a boner in front of all those yoga freaks.”
I stood there with nothing else to possibly say.
“Geesh!” said Hill. “You are such a zero.”
She stormed away. A moment passed.
“That’s my sister,” I finally said to Allison.
“You have the same nose,” she replied.
“She’s in seventh grade,” I added.
“I like her belt.”
“She hates me,” I told her.
Allison reached out, took my bag of M&M’s, then popped a yellow one into her mouth.
“Really? I couldn’t tell,” she said, chewing.
“Seems I kinda gotta go somewhere after school,” I said.
“Your helicopter?”
“The yacht,” I said. “Just had it painted.”
Allison turned the bag upside down and poured the last two M&M’s into her hand.
“Got it,” she said.
“But maybe we could walk together tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.
Allison crumpled up the empty bag. Of course, she was going to dump me, tell me she had changed her mind about walking home with me, changed her mind about being friends with me and, worst of all, changed her mind about going to the Big Dance with me.
After all, if I were her, that’s what I would have done. Clearly I was mayor of a city called Loserville.
“Ya know, Bobby,” she began.
“Yeah,” I said, completely understanding.
“Walking with you tomorrow, well . . .” She paused. “My limo driver, he’s got this schedule to keep.”
I raised my eyes. “Your limo driver?”
“What?” she said. “You think you’re the only one with a private chauffeur in this neighborhood? Get with the program. This is middle school. If you don’t have a limo driver, you don’t have anything.”
She popped a brown M&M into her mouth.
“Right,” I said with a big smile. “Well then, check with your driver and let me know.”
“I’ll do that,” she answered.
“You know how to contact me?” I asked.
“I do,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Bobby, I’m sure. I do have a school e-chat account, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Well then, okay . . . um, bye-bye.”
“Not bye-bye,” she said. “One bye.”
I cocked my head to the side, not quite understanding.
“Two hi’s, one bye,” she explained. “Hi-hi because it’s good to see each other, but one bye because it’s not as good to leave. And bring more M&M’s tomorrow,” she added. “My dad only lets me bring fruit.”
Then she popped my last M&M, a green one, into her mouth and munched.
If it would have been legal to get married while still in eighth grade, I swear I wouldda headed out ring shop
ping right then and there.
She turned and waved. “Bye,” she said.
“Bye.”
The rest of that day I was unable to walk to any of my classes. All I could do was float. I was feeling sky-high, like nothing in this whole entire world could bring me down.
When I got to the brown door inside the counseling office after school, I gave three small knocks to a little musical beat that played in my head, then entered.
“Happy Wednesday, Dr. Cox.”
“Happy Wednesday to you as well, Bobby,” she answered. Today’s sleeveless top was navy blue. I could see the veins running all the way up her biceps. “Sorry I had to change appointment times.”
“No worries.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re in a good mood, because today we’re going to take the Freudian approach.”
“Whatever,” I answered.
“Please, have a seat on the couch.”
I lay back. Hey, I thought, this thing’s pretty comfortable.
“All right, fire away.” I was ready to take on the world.
“Okay, we’ll begin with a few basic questions.” Dr. Cox took out a notepad and adjusted her skinny eyeglasses. “Have you ever seen your mother naked?”
“What!?”
I shot up off the couch, but gently, she pushed me back down.
“It’s okay, Bobby. A lot of boys your age are curious about the female body.”
“My mom’s not a female,” I said. “She’s, like, a mom.”
“All right, tell me about your father. I assume you’ve seen him naked, correct?”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“Tell me,” she said, looking over the rim of her glasses. “Would you say the dimensions of your father’s penis are, one: intimidatingly large; two: exceedingly small; or three: appropriately sized for a man of his height and weight?”
“Um . . .”
I did everything I could not to think about my dad’s pickle.
“I’ll read the options again. One: intimidatingly large; two: exceedingly small; or three: appropriately—”
“Can I use the restroom?”
“You need to pee?” she asked.
“I need to puke,” I said.
She looked down at her little chart and checked off a box.
“Still reluctant to participate in his recovery,” she said to herself, but loud enough for me to hear it. “Recommendation: extended analysis.”