by Wizner, Jake
MORE REALISTIC
Celeste Keller:
The day Celeste heard my obituary was the day our relationship took on new life. We sit together in class now, and I smile when she makes references to novels I haven’t read and wonder if this is how literary people flirt. I missed a great opportunity the other day. She was talking about a battle scene in The Iliad as an example of Homer-erotica, and it wasn’t until later that I realized Homer rhymes with boner.
Katie Marks:
If you look closely enough at Katie, you can see that she has a pretty face and a nice body, even though she plays down her femininity as much as possible. Sometimes I fantasize about her ripping open her oversized army coat and being completely naked underneath. The way she curses, you know there would be a lot of dirty talk. The way she drinks, you know she would be wild and uninhibited. Neil says he is going to try to sleep with her, and I tell him it’s lame to talk that way about your closest female friend.
SAFETIES
Jane Blumeberg:
Jane Blumeberg is a sweet, shy girl a year behind me in school. I am sure she has never had a boyfriend or even kissed a boy. Our families know each other and belong to the same temple. She always smiles when she sees me, and I’ve caught her staring at me when she didn’t think I was looking. She is actually pretty cute, with long brown hair and big doe-like eyes, but I think what she would like is a nice, safe boy to hold hands with. You seethe problem.
Most any ninth-grade girl with low self-esteem:
I’m just kidding. Sort of.
My list of colleges is far more extensive, with at least half a dozen schools I have absolutely no chance of getting into.
“You never know,” my mother says. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”
We’re in the living room before dinner, and my father has just finished his second martini.
“George Bush got into Yale,” he says, looking wistfully at his empty glass.
“And you’re certainly smarter than he is,” my mother adds.
Given that she’s a high school guidance counselor, it is remarkable how little my mother understands about how colleges choose their students. Thank goodness she works at a school other than mine.
“Who wouldn’t want you?” my mother says, giving me a hug.
Every girl in my high school class, for starters, I think.
“You’re certainly a better writer than most of the students in my freshman seminar,” my father says.
This is small consolation. My father is probably the only tenured English professor in the country who volunteers to teach a remedial writing course to incoming freshmen, and most of his students speak English as a second language. His dissertation was entitled Chewing GUM: Sinking Our Teeth into Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, and I’ve caught him more than once salivating over a well-placed semicolon.
“Well, hopefully I’ll get in somewhere,” I say, because I can’t resist the opportunity to provoke him.
Sure enough, his face goes red. “Hopefully is an adverb. Do not use it to mean ‘I hope.’”
And now the farmer example.
“The farmer looked up at the sky hopefully,” my father says.
I smile.
“You scoundrel,” he says, and goes off to fix himself another drink.
Mr. Parke often begins class with a free-write. When we come in, he has us take out a piece of paper and make a list of the things we are most preoccupied with.
“Don’t spend a lot of time thinking,” he says. “Just write down whatever is on your mind.”
To demonstrate, he quickly scribbles his own list on the board:
BEAUTIFUL WRITING, BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, 100-YEAR-OLD GRAND MARNIER, ALIMONY PAYMENTS, MARQUIS DE SADE.
He points to the last item. “That’s the name of my Saint Bernard,” he says by way of explanation, “though the original’s not bad either.”
“Are we going to have to share this with the class?” Eugene Gruber asks. Eugene is president of the Dungeons & Dragons club, which puts him just slightly below me on the social food chain.
“This is just for you, Eugene,” Mr. Parke replies. “So don’t hold back on any of those secret perversions.”
The class laughs, and I join in, grateful that I am not the one they are laughing at.
On my paper I write: CELESTE, GETTING LAID, GETTING INTO COLLEGE, SATS, MEMOIR AWARD, PUBLIC HUMILIATION, MR. PARKE’S LEFT TESTICLE.
“Now,” says Mr. Parke, “write for twenty minutes off the list you came up with and see where it takes you.”
Eugene’s hand shoots up.
“No, Eugene, you will not have to share, though I hope some people will volunteer.”
I begin to write and, uncensored, the words come easily.
Stanley Kaplan and The Princeton Review Offer SEX Preparation Classes
After years of success offering SAT and other test-preparation courses, Stanley Kaplan and The Princeton Review have decided to expand their tutoring empires to prepare male teenagers for the new SEXs.
SEX, which stands for Sex Exam, comes at a time when an increasing number of teenage boys are finding they lack the necessary skills to get laid. “Something had to be done,” said Hugh Hefner, founder of Playboy magazine and a strong supporter of the new testing program. “We’ve got a whole generation of young men growing up without the tools they need to be sexually productive members of our society.”
The Sex Exam consists of two sections. The first—Getting Someone to Go to Bed with You—focuses on strategies that will make you more desirable. The second—Sexual Performance—focuses on maximizing both your and your partner’s pleasure during the act itself.
Testing was scheduled to begin last year, but protests of sexual bias from the gay community convinced test makers and education officials that new tests needed to be developed. “We’re very conscious of political correctness,” said an education spokesman. “Students now have the option of taking a version of the exam that focuses specifically on gay sex.”
Although the test is new, representatives from Stanley Kaplan and The Princeton Review are confident they can prepare anybody who takes their classes. “We’ll be teaching our courses in a revolutionary way,” said a spokesman for Stanley Kaplan. “Not only will students work their way through practice problems in our review books, they will also observe and discuss live simulations. We’re very excited about our program. I’ve got a hard-on just thinking about it.”
“Any volunteers to share?” Mr. Parke asks.
Rocco raises his hand.
“Mr. Mackey,” Mr. Parke says with a smile. “Have you actually written something today, or are we to be treated to one of your fabulous drawings?”
“Both,” Rocco says proudly.
Rocco reads a few sentences about how much he loves football. Then he holds up his drawing, which shows a huge player in a uniform that says MACKEY crashing down on a cowering quarterback.
Mr. Parke shakes his head. “Painful,” he says. “On so many levels.” Then, more brightly, “Any other volunteers?”
Everybody looks at everybody else.
“Share yours, Shakespeare,” Rocco calls across the room. “I bet that’s some funny shit.”
I try to make myself as small as possible. “That’s okay.”
“Come on, Shakespeare,” Celeste whispers. “I’m sure it’s great.”
Everyone is suddenly looking at me, and even Mr. Parke seems to be nodding encouragement. A few more seconds and I will lose control of the situation completely.
“It’s not appropriate,” I say.
Mr. Parke’s eyes light up. “I should hope not.”
I look down at my paper. There is no way I can read this out loud to the class. Every girl in here will think I’m some kind of pervert.
“Would you like me to read it for you?” Mr. Parke asks.
It feels like I have no choice, so I hand him my paper.
I keep my head down as he reads, and my skin prickles with excitement and an
guish. Even though I go to great lengths to make myself invisible, deep down I crave the spotlight. I hear people laughing, but somehow it all seems very far away. I peek up and see Celeste looking at me and smiling.
“You’re the man!” Rocco yells when Mr. Parke has finished.
Mr. Parke shakes his head. “I must say, Mr. Shapiro, your writing certainly is provocative.” He hands me my paper and smiles. “Brilliant work.”
Celeste comes up beside me as I leave class and puts her arm through mine. “You’re bad,” she says.
There are very few things more exciting than being called bad by a girl you want to do bad things to. Why, then, do I feel like I might throw up?
“Where do you come up with your ideas?” she asks.
I shrug. It’s hard to concentrate with Celeste touching me.
“I get it,” she says. “Great writers never reveal their inspiration.”
“No, it’s just…I don’t know…I wish there really was a class like that,” I say. “I sure could use it right now.”
Celeste laughs but does not say anything.
“Do you want to maybe go to a movie after school?” I ask without looking at her.
Celeste stops and turns to me. “Today?” She has a troubled look on her face. “I can’t today. I have an appointment.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I should be working on my memoir anyway.” Idiot, idiot, idiot, what were you thinking?
“I could go on Thursday,” she says.
“Thursday? Yeah, Thursday’s good. Great.”
We stand there looking at each other, smiling awkwardly.
“So I guess I’ll see you later,” I say, already moving away. Miraculously, I manage to escape without tripping or bumping into any large objects.
I’m sitting in Ms. Rigby’s math class basking in the glow of my conquest when the assistant principal comes in and calls Charlotte White out of class. Charlotte is a quiet, serious student, so it seems unlikely that she is in trouble. All I can think is that there must be some sort of family emergency, and when Charlotte walks from the room—quick and pale—I flash back to a poem she wrote in English last year. She never shared her work in class, but one time we were paired together, and I had to read what she had written. I remember she seemed uncomfortable sharing, and though I don’t recall exactly what the poem was about, I do remember a frightening image of a girl walking across a frozen lake, and knowing somehow she was writing about herself.
She’s a strange girl, Charlotte, though it’s hard to pinpoint what exactly is off. It’s not her clothes or her mannerisms or the way she talks. She doesn’t have any tattoos or weird piercings or purple hair or unshaved legs. She’s actually very plain-looking, a little tall maybe, with a slightly tomboyish face. What sets her apart, I think, is the way she always keeps to herself. It’s like there’s an invisible wall she’s put up to keep people from getting too close. She came to the school partway through eleventh grade last year and, as far as I can tell, has never made any friends.
I push Charlotte out of my mind and return to more pleasant musings. I imagine walking through the hallways hand in hand with Celeste, and people who have never paid me any attention suddenly taking notice. I imagine acknowledging my brother and his girlfriend with a knowing grin as I wrap my arm around Celeste’s shoulders. I imagine kissing Celeste by the lockers the way I’ve seen other couples kiss as if it’s no big deal.
When I sit down at lunch I must look as smug as I feel because Katie asks me if I’ve just gotten laid.
“Not yet,” I say with a smile.
“What happened?” Neil asks.
I draw out the silence, savoring the moment. “Got a date with Celeste on Thursday.”
Neil nearly jumps out of his seat. “What happened?”
“Jesus,” Katie says, looking at him. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I tell them what happened, leaving out any moments of personal awkwardness and insecurity.
“Screw the movie,” Katie says when I’ve finished. “Just get her drunk.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “Very romantic.”
“Take her to the new Showcase Cinemas,” Neil says. “They have the best bathrooms.”
Katie glares at him. “Could you be any more fucking pathetic?”
Neil blows her a kiss. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
Thursday comes, and I spend most of the day making a mental list of everything that could go wrong on our date. I have little hope that things will run completely smoothly, but I am determined to avoid any large-scale catastrophes. Once we make it to the movie, I figure I will be in the clear. I mean, how much can go wrong once the movie starts?
We have planned to see a new comedy, but when we meet after school, Celeste asks if I’d rather see a South American documentary playing at the art theater downtown. “It’s about the resurgence of Native American cultures in the Americas,” she says. “It’s supposed to be really good.”
It’s a documentary. It’s probably going to be one of the most insufferably boring movies I have ever seen. “Sounds good,” I say.
“Have you seen any of Alejandero’s other films?”
Alejandero? Is that his first name or his last name? “I don’t think so,” I say.
“He’s amazing. I saw a film he made about the domestic rituals of female Inuits that was so eye-opening.”
Female Inuits. Sounds fascinating. Can I have a large shovel or a long piece of rope?
We get on the bus, and I use the opportunity to change the subject.
“How’s your memoir coming along?” I ask.
Celeste takes a deep breath as if she’s about to deliver some pronouncement of great consequence. “It’s a challenge,” she says. “I mean, you read Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and anything you write seems so childish and inept.” She looks at me expectantly.
Just get to the theater, I think. Dark room, no more talking. “I try to stay away from writers with long Russian names.”
Celeste laughs. She thinks I’m kidding.
When we get to the theater, Celeste refuses my offer to buy her ticket. “You can buy the popcorn,” she says. “I’ll go get seats.”
I don’t want popcorn. The butter makes me sick.
“And ask them to put extra butter on it,” she calls back to me.
The theater is half empty, but Celeste has managed to find us seats in the middle of a nearly full row, and I have to navigate my way over the legs and past the knees of several stone-faced senior citizens who sit rigidly, refusing to make room for me to pass. This is fun, I think as I stumble over a cane. I should go on dates more often.
The buttered popcorn and my frazzled nerves conspire against me, and just as the movie starts I develop intense stomach cramps. I look down the row. The old people have formed a blockade. On the screen there is tribal chanting, and a voiceover says, “After years of oppression, now the time has come for Montezuma’s revenge.”
“How long is this movie?” I whisper.
“About two and a half hours.”
I close my eyes. Wonderful. I’d say I’ve got about seven minutes before I start to crap all over this seat.
I actually hold out for twenty before I make a mad dash to the bathroom, where I release a cacophony of sounds that would leave even Neil wide-eyed with disbelief. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to step over those surly senior citizens again and then realize that my stomach is still acting up. I don’t want to sit through two more hours of a movie without any plot, action, or nudity. But how long can I stay here before Celeste starts to worry and comes looking for me?
Fifteen minutes later I finally make my way back. “Are you okay?” she whispers as I slide into my seat.
I nod, though my shin is stinging from a well-placed kick from Mr. or Mrs. Medicare down the row.
Celeste remains focused on the screen. “I’ll tell you what you missed when it’s over.”
Better yet, just shoot me
now.
When the movie ends, we stand outside the theater, and I tell Celeste how interesting I thought the film was, and she tells me that I should really try to rent the Inuit film, and I tell her that I will, though it’s more likely that I’ll chop off my left pinkie and sell it on eBay.
Celeste looks at her watch. “I should go. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”
I nod, simultaneously relieved to be escaping our date without further damage and terrified that she is ditching me to go have dinner with some other guy. “Yeah, I need to get going myself. Are you taking the bus?”
“No, it’s close.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow in class.” Then she turns and walks off.
Bye. Feel free to discuss my bowel movements if you run out of things to talk about.
“Well, I’m glad to see the old pathetic Shakespeare is back,” Katie says to me at lunch the next day.
“I hate those bathrooms,” Neil says. “I told you to go to Showcase Cinemas.”
I push the food around my plate.
“Oh, cheer up,” Katie says. “She’s a stuck-up bitch anyway.”
“You think everyone is a stuck-up bitch,” I say.
“Not them,” she says, motioning to a table across the cafeteria where Rocco Mackey and a group of his friends are sliding their hot dogs in and out of their mouths.
“Gross,” Neil says. He wipes ketchup from his tray with his finger and licks it off.
Katie smiles. “You’re saying ‘gross’? You keep a journal of your bowel movements.”
Neil blushes and shoots me an angry look.
I shrug. “I didn’t know it was a secret. You seem so proud of it.”
“You have got to be the biggest freak I have ever met,” Katie says.
“What? What’s so weird about it?” Neil asks.
They begin going back and forth, and I let my eyes wander around the cafeteria. It’s all so familiar, the same groups sitting in the same places having the same conversations. At one table, I notice, Charlotte White is sitting alone, hunched over a notebook, writing furiously. She is completely absorbed, writing in an uninterrupted stream, pausing only long enough to turn the page before her pen races onward. With her free hand she sweeps some strands of hair out of her face like she is shooing away a fly. What could she be writing? What kind of dark, brooding voices are lurking inside her head?