Busted (10 page)

19

I
wake up with a panic attack the next morning because there just aren't enough days left in the school year. Under any other circumstances this would be a sign of grave illness, possibly of impending insanity. But I know I'm not insane, because things are different now. I've had two dates in the past week. Before that, I had zero dates in eighteen years. Even though math has never been my best subject, in my feverish state I do the following calculation and it makes me realize that time is short:

2 dates per wk x 2.5 wks remaining until prom

= 5 pre-prom dates

I resolve to make the most of every remaining day. But then I do another, hypothetical calculation and it makes me wish I were still a junior:

2 dates per wk x 54.5 wks until prom

= 109 pre-prom dates

Yes, 109 dates. All with different girls. Now, it's true that there aren't 109 girls in my class I would actually want to date—or even 109 girls, come to think of it—but that's not the point. It's the thought that, had things been different, I'd be the kind of guy who lines up 109 dates in little more than a year. But instead, the vagaries of the academic calendar are robbing me of this opportunity. And it doesn't seem fair.

I fume about this all the way to school, but by lunchtime I've set up a date on Wednesday with Kayla Reid, so I begin to feel better about things. One pre-prom date down, four to go.

And then Taylor Carson asks for a date the same evening, and because she's hot I get flustered and say yes, and suddenly my concerns are altogether different.

I start by trying to put off Kayla, because she's not as cute as Taylor. She's taller than me, has significantly more muscular legs, and wears a perpetually bored expression. But she's also got Angelina Jolie's lips, and a tongue-stud that she uses to great effect when making out.

Or so I'm told.

I stop her after school and tell her I can't make it on Wednesday, and she tells me that I
can
make it and I
will
make it.

And I say, “Yes, you're right.” Because, like I said, she's bigger and more muscular than me.

On Tuesday, I manage to catch Taylor just as English class is beginning. I say that since she's dating Zach I can't go out with her in good conscience, even though the thought of giving Zach the shaft is positively irresistible. She says they've br
oken up, so I don't need to worry. I manage to hide my surprise and delight, then ask her if she'd like to try another night instead, because I'm busy on Wednesday. She looks deeply wounded, and asks me if it's because I dislike her or find her unattractive. Even though I know she's a born actress, I'm wracked with guilt. I promise to spend Wednesday with her.

Ms. Kowalski is hovering near my table, eavesdropping on our conversation. I don't get Ms. K. She's lost almost two-thirds of the girls in her class now, yet she's never seemed happier. But every time she sees me she shakes her head and looks away. I'm tempted to turn up to class with a big scarlet
A
painted on my T-shirt, but that might count as being dorky, so I probably shouldn't.

“Still five of you left,” she sighs, scanning the faces of the remaining girls disappointedly. “I guess the cheerleading squad just likes my class that much, huh?”

I can't believe it didn't occur to me before now, but all of my dates have been or will be with members of the cheerleading squad: Paige, Jessica, Kayla, Taylor. It's a remarkable coincidence, and I'm fortunate that they're also the girls who have chosen to avoid my mom's class.

Ms. K slumps in her chair, then looks up imploringly. “Why not give Professor Donaldson's class a chance? You might be impressed.”

Paige snorts. “I'm pretty comfortable with my femininity, thank you,” she says curtly.

“But that's not really the point. Feminism is hardly synonymous with femininity.”

“Well, duh! If it was, feminists would be cute and like themselves more.”

I half-expect Ms. K to scream at Paige, but instead she just looks tired and sad.

“What about you, Taylor? Do you feel the same way as Paige?”

“Oh geez, I—”

“Of course she does,” Paige assures us, casting a level stare at Taylor. “We're in this together.”

“In
what?”
moans Ms. K. “What on earth does ‘We're in this together' mean?” She returns her attention to Taylor. “I just can't believe you'd feel the same way as Paige. If this is some kind of weird popularity contest, I'd like to point out that most girls have moved on to Professor Donaldson's class, so you're actually in the minority by staying here.”

“It's not the
female
majority we're interested in,” laughs Paige flirtatiously, kicking back in her chair and smiling confidently as all male eyes focus on her.

I take a moment to look around the room at the other cheerleaders, expecting to see them mirroring Paige's carefree laughter. But they're not smiling. Taylor is studying her pen, Jessica is staring intently out the window, and Morgan is shaking her head like she's just not sure about any of this.

Only I don't know what
this
is. I just know there's a schism forming among the cheerleaders, and Paige seems blissfully unaware of it. She continues to flash her smile at the boys around her. She even throws in a few carefully executed lower lip nibbles to be extra cute.

But it doesn't do anything for me. For the first time, even though I can't quite believe it myself, I don't find her attractive a
t all.

20

B
randon schedules the next meeting for Wednesday lunchtime, which means I'll have to stand Abby up at lunch again. This will annoy her because she'll know where I am and she won't like it. We've avoided the topic since our run-in last week, but I know it still bugs her. Even the last quartet practice seemed kind of flat.

On the way to the meeting I stop off at the vending machine to grab a can of Dr. Pepper. Almost immediately Brandon sidles up, tutting loudly.

“Not impressive, Kev,” he sighs.

“Oh, I don't normally drink this stuff, but—”

“Th
at's not what I mean. I'm talking about the fact that you're about to put money in this machine.” He slides in front of me and holds down the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons. “Now push the button you want,”
he instructs.

I hesitate a moment, wondering if I'm about to become the butt of a joke. If so, at least there's no one around to see it.

I tentatively push the Dr. Pepper button. A can rolls out. A Dr. Pepper can, to be precise.

“The guy who owns the vending machine compiled the Book of Busts back in 1973,” Brandon says, like this explains what just happened. “He's old as hell now, but he still remembers the glory days at Brookbank.”

I try to hide my smile. “Did you just get me a free Dr. Pepper?”

“Damn right.”

“But how?”

“The owner rewired it for us.” Brandon leans over and helps himself to a Mountain Dew. “But only important people know about this trick, so if you tell anyone else, there'll be hell to pay. Understand?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“Cool.” He cracks open his can and bumps it against mine. “So all you have to do is press the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons at the same time as the one you actually want. It takes a bit of practice, but you'll get it.”

“What if I want Diet 7-Up or Diet Coke?”

Brandon's upper lip curls. “Diet drinks are for girls. You're not a girl, are you?”

“Um, no.”

“Good. Then there's no problem, right?”

“Well, no. But doesn't the guy who stocks the machine notice there are cans missing?”

Brandon laughs. “Oh, that's the best thing of all. Because the inventory never balances out on this machine, the owner can use it as evidence to fire employees who aren't pulling their weight. So we get free drinks and he gets to run a more efficient business.”

“But … that's illegal, isn't it?”

Brandon puts his arm across my shoulders and lowers his voice. “Do you realize how hard it is to fire people legally these days? Even complete slackers are untouchable. I'm telling you, every time we take a can we're making the world a better place.”

“Oh.”

“And remember what I said about us being part of something bigger than ourselves? This is exactly what I'm talki
ng about. We're like a fraternity, only without the Greek letters—”

“Or the kegs,” I remind him.

“Huh? No way. We have the kegs.”

“Oh.”

Brandon turns and ambles along the corridor. He doesn't seem to mind me tagging along.

“What I'm saying is, back in 1973 this owner guy was
you
, Kev. He was the
man
. And when you're the man, people'll always look out for you.” He ruffles my hair. “You do realize y
ou're the man now, right?”

“Um … yeah, I guess.”

“Good. 'Cause there's something I need to give you.”

Brandon stops beside his locker and opens it. He reaches in and removes a sturdy black box with the reverence normally reserved for holy relics. Inside the box, layer upon layer of tissue paper covers a cracked, ancient-looking, brown leather book.

“This,” whispers Brandon, “is the original Book of Busts.”

As he gently places it in my hands, my first thought is that it's about to fall apart. Not only does the cover bring new meaning to the term “distressed leather,” but the book is stuffed to bursting with dog-eared pieces of paper in every imaginable shade of yellow, cream, and off-white. Every page chronicles a portion of each senior class of Brookbank girls, and all the pages have been meticulously bound together with string.

I turn to the beginning of the book, where the photographs are pretty faded. I notice that the numbers below the photos haven't changed much over the years, but that's less extraordinary than the horrific array of over-permed and beehive hairstyles; truthfully, having Jessica Alba's figure wouldn't help any of these girls.

I leaf through until I reach the 1980s, figuring there'll be a higher proportion of hotties here, but instead my eyes are assaulted by a criminally large number of wild, gel-induced bangs. It's not until I get to the twenty-first century that I find myself the slightest bit attracted to Brookbank's senior girls.

“Amazing, isn't it,” says Brandon. “It's a historical document, when you think about it.”

“It's old, all right.”

“And now it's yours to keep until you've completed the entries for our year. When you're done, we'll remove the sheets from your folder and bind them into the book.” He nods his head approvingly. “You've earned this, Kev. You're really getting the job done. I'm proud of you.”

“Um, thanks, Brandon. I appreciate you saying that.” I feel a little choked up. “Look, I just have to ask … why me? I mean, this is such an honor, and I guess I still don't get why you let me do it.”

“Can you imagine any of the other guys appreciating the significance of an antique like this?” he laughs.

I laugh too. “I guess not.”

Brandon looks up and down the corridor, and thinks for a moment. “Okay, look, it's true that the head of the Rituals usually keeps the book for himself, or gives it to one of the most popular guys in school as a reward. But the way I see it, all that does is limit the Rituals to a small group.”

Brandon closes his locker and gazes longingly at the book, like he isn't quite ready to bid it farewell.

“Back when it started, the Book of Busts involved
everybody
. It was a source of school pride. But over the years, the other parts of the Graduation Rituals—the Alternative Yearbook, the Strategic Graffiti Campaign—got added, and the significance of the book got diluted. Now most guys don't even bother to join in at all. So when you said you wanted to do the book, I realized this was my chance to remind everyone that the Rituals are bigger than any one person.”

“That's for sure.”

“And look at you now. You're popular, and unlike most of the other guys you deserve that, because you've taken your job seriously. And future generations of Brookbank seniors are going to remember you for it too.”

I have to admit that his hyperbole is quite alluring. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. You're the guy who's going to prove that the book is still relevant … You're my legacy, Kev. I know you won't let me down.”

Once the meeting begins, Brandon turns to Spud and wrings his hands anxiously, which is an unusual sight.

“So Spud, about the Alternative Yearbook … ”

Spud nods.

“Well, we, like, put you in charge of it … ”

Spud nods.

“And, like, from what I've been hearing you haven't exactly been asking around for information … or help.”

Spud nods.

“So I guess what I'm saying is, are you into the whole Alternative Yearbook thing?”

Spud nods. “Dude.”

Brandon visibly relaxes. “Cool. So you're making progress?”

Spud nods. “Dude.”

“So can we see what you've got so far?”

“Whoa,” grunts Spud, like a pit bull guarding a bone.

Brandon drops the matter because he values his life. Then he looks over my way and asks for an update. I notice he doesn't seem as intimidated by me.

“Well,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “I've got an entry for Jessica Pantley.”

“Cool. Who gave you that?”

“No one. I got it myself.”

“So … you had a date with Jess Pantley?”

“Yup.”

At least half the jaws in the room are hanging open, and although it's not a pretty sight, the effect is quite empowering.

Brandon tries to hide his surprise. “So what are her stats?”

I pretend to study the book as if I haven't actually memorized them already. “34B-25-35.”

“34B my ass,” shouts Zach. “Don't tell me, you used the same scientific guesswork as before.”

“Actually, I felt them, and they're right on 34B.”

“You felt them? Or did you just have a grope while she was still wearing a bra?”

I don't say anything.

“See! You didn't touch them at all. She was probably wearing a padded bra, you moron.” He looks imploringly at Brandon. “Come on, Brandon, it's time for dorkus here to go.”

“Zach,” says Brandon soothingly, “the fact is, Kev has filled in the blanks under two prized girls, in one week. All you had to do was dish the dirt on Taylor—who happens to be your girlfriend, by the way—but you haven't even managed that. So until you can prove to us that you're worthy of the job, how about you get off Kevin's case?”

Being Brandon's best buddy has some real perks.

Zach nods slowly. “All right, I'll get you Taylor's numbers,” he mumbles. “Leave it to me.”

A part of me wants to say that this is quite unlikely since she's dumped him. But then I wonder, what if she hasn't actually dumped him? What if she's just two-timing him? And so I decide to keep my mouth shut.

But I'll still go on a date with her, because if she is two-timing Zach, I'll enjoy myself even more.