Busted (14 page)

27

I
've decided to leave the quartet. Nobody actually knows this yet, but they'll find out after school today when I don't show up for practice.

It's not that I'm a coward—it's just that I'm too frightened to face Abby. Come to think of it, I'm too scared to face a lot of people right now: Paige, Jessica, Kayla, Taylor, Zach. I'm even avoiding Spud. I don't know if he and Zach are close, but if they are it stands to reason that Zach would get Spud to carry out his ritual slayings for him, sort of like the Mafia.

During English, I start counting down the school days that are left: only seven until prom, and then fifteen after that. I could fake a mystery virus for three days without arousing suspicion, but that still leaves nineteen school days, and that's nineteen too many. I'm wondering if it's possible to graduate if I miss the last month of school. Sure, my class ranking would tank, but that's a totally acceptable trade.

It was just last week that I didn't want school to end. I had dreams of five more pre-prom dates—109 in a parallel universe. I imagined my life chronicled in the annals of Brookbank High—a Lothario, a stud. Turns out it was just early onset insanity. But I've returned to reality. Now I just want to disappear. Maybe by the time I resurface, nobody will remember I ever existed.

I don't speak during English, and neither does Paige. I think it's starting to dawn on her that being the only girl in class is actually quite daunting, especially as most of the guys spend the whole time shamelessly checking her out. She sits in her customary seat at the back of the room, but it doesn't matter—they just rubberneck anyway. Without any of her friends around, she can't even complain aloud as they ogle her. I wonder how much longer she'll hold out.

I'm almost out the school door when I see Nathan studying the vending machine options. I feel a pang of guilt, knowing I'm about to stand him and the other quartet members up, so I hurry over, hoping I can make amends preemptively.

“Hey, Nathan. What are you getting?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Oh, hey. Geez, I don't know. Something Diet … Diet Sprite.”

Before he can say another word, I press the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons, then bang the Diet Sprite button with my knee. There's an ominous cracking sound like I may have applied a little too much pressure, but the can obediently rolls out anyway.

Nathan doesn't move. “Wow. You hit the machine … and there's a can.”

“Yes,” I say, handing it to him.

“What did you just do?”

“Um, I can't tell you. I promised I wouldn't show anyone.”

“I'm not talking about your trick—the knee-strike, the button bang—I'm talking about stealing.”

I can feel his disapproval like a chill in the air. “No, Nathan. It's not like that. The guy who owns the vending machine is cool with it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. He uses the missing cans as an excuse to fire people he doesn't like.” Nathan studies me like I'm growing an extra head. “Oh, man, that didn't come out right. Look, I just figured you'd like a freebie, that's all.”

Nathan narrows his eyes and carefully flattens his hair with his fingertips. “Let me recap, Kev. You're stealing drinks, but it's cool 'cause you're also helping Mr. Vending Machine fire his employees. Any of this sounding illegal … unethical?”

“No way. It's not like that … ”

He gives me a couple seconds to continue, then hands the can back.

“Keep it. This one's a little too cold for me.”

“How was school?” Mom asks.

“Fine.”

“What do you mean by ‘fine'?”

Not again. I'm about to scream when I notice she's laughing.

“I'm just kidding, honey.” She taps away on the computer keyboard. “I thought you'd be disappointed if I didn't ask you about your day.”

“No, not disappointed at all,” I assure her.

“Oh. Well, it would be nice to hear you say something about school every now and then.”

“Okay. How about, I'm ready for graduation.”

“Ha ha. You seniors are all the same. My new student, Morgan, said she's ready to move on too. She said she's even sick of cheerleading—she wants to get back to solo dance so she can express herself outside of the prescribed boundaries of micromanaged routines.”

“She really said that?”

“Uh-huh. She also said the boys at Brookbank make her feel uncomfortable, like she's nothing more than an object for their twisted fantasies, although I think she was generalizing. I mean, you'd never make a girl feel like a fantasy object, and there must be other boys like you.”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mom says excitedly, returning her attention to the computer. “Jane said they'd put some information about my class on the school Web site.”

Suddenly my heart is racing. “It doesn't say anything about me, does it?”

“I don't know, but I expect so. Let's find out.”

M
om closes her e-mail and pulls up Google. She begins to enter the name of the school, but after she types the first two letters, the computer completes the search
term for her:
breast measurements examples with images
. She stops typing and reads the words over and over, as if trying to divine some deep and hidden meaning.

“Why does it say ‘breast measurements examples with images,' Kevin?”

“Um, I don't know. You typed it in, not me.”

“No, I typed in ‘br,' the computer filled in the rest.”

“That's weird.”

“Kevin, you don't use the computer to … you know … self-stimulate, do you?”

“Oh my God.”

“I mean, I want you to know that it's perfectly healthy for a boy your age to masturbate, but since we both share the computer, it would make me feel a little uncomfortable to imagine you sitting here—”

“Can we please not talk about this?”

Mom huffs. “No, honey, I think we need to get this out in the open. You've been behaving strangely lately, and now I find you've been using the Internet to locate soft porn. You know I don't approve of the male fascination with breasts, any more than the vagina or clitoris—”

“We're not having this conversation.”

“Oh yes we are, Kevin. You've changed, and I want to know why.”

“I haven't changed.”

“Kevin!” snaps Mom, but then there's knocking on the front door so she gets up to answer it. “Don't think we won't revisit this later, young man.”

As she flounces out of the room, I jump on the computer and turn off the auto-complete preference. While I'm at it, I erase the entire search history. I can't believe I forgot to do this before—it must have been because Abby came in and interrupted me. I hope she doesn't pay any more visits for a while.

“Hi, Abby,” Mom chirps as she opens the front door.

Oh crap. I absolutely do not want to talk to Abby. More importantly, I absolutely do not want to talk to Abby with Mom hanging around, so I scamper into the bathroom and lock the door. It's kind of a lame thing to do, but I can't make it to my bedroom without passing them on the way.

“Kevin, it's Abby … Kevin, where are you?”

I don't say a word. I'm invisible—I no longer exist.

“He's probably in the bathroom,” says Abby.

“Are you in the bathroom, Kevin?”

“I'm sick,” I moan.

“He's not sick. He's just hiding from me.”

“Why are you hiding from Abby, honey?”

“I'm not hiding from Abby.”

“He's hiding from me because he's a coward.”

“I
'm not a coward. I'm just sick.” I stick my fingers down my throat and try to gag, but nothing h
appens. Geez, this is how half the girls at school spend their lunchtime. How difficult can it be?

“Please don't make yourself throw up,” says Abby. “It's kind of gross hearing you gag 'cause you're sticking your fingers down your throat.”

“I'm not sticking my fingers down my throat.”

“Of course you're not, honey. Now, why don't you come out and talk to Abby and me.”

Hmmm, let me think about that. “No.”

“Don't bother, Maggie,” Abby says. “I only came around to ask Kevin why he wasn't at rehearsal today. I figured there'd be a simple explanation, but now I wonder if maybe there isn't something more complicated going on here. If there is, perhaps he can get it all out in the open before things get even uglier … Anyway, I should go. I'll let myself out. Goodbye, Kevin.”

I hear her footsteps receding, but I'm too afraid to come out. Presumably Mom's still by the door, waiting to pounce.

“Kevin,” Mom eventually whispers through the keyhole. “How would you feel about therapy?”

28

M
y new campaign to be invisible is failing miserably. I recited a litany of reasons why I wouldn't be able to make it to the baseball semifinal, but Brandon still dragged me along. He says it's the biggest game of the year so far—like I care—and there's bound to be some post-game action. And even though I don't want any action, I'm here anyway, loitering beside the Brookbank dugout, wearing dark clothing so I can't be seen. At least it's the top of the seventh inning already, and the way Spud's been pitching, the remainder of the game won't take long.

When the third of Brookbank's star batters strikes out, the opposition's cheerleaders surge forward and perform a short routine as part of the seventh-inning stretch. Then they ease back to the visitors' bench as Morgan and the other Brookbank cheerleaders take the field. They're almost through with their set when I realize that I'm actually watching the steps rather than ogling the girls. This is a first for me.

“And now Morgan Giddes, captain of Brookbank High's varsity cheerleading squad, will perform a solo dance she's created especially for the occasion,” drones the announcer.

I figure I must have misheard him, but there's Morgan, standing apart from the cheerleaders, head raised high, waiting for the music to start.

And what music: modern, angular, with fiendish syncopated rhythms and a constantly fluctuating meter. I can't imagine a harder piece to choreograph to, but she clearly knows the music intimately. Every spike in the melody is reflected in her movements, every jarring chord provides the impetus for gestures both subtle and dynamic. It's part ballet, part interpretive dance, and completely, suicidally daring.

I'm suddenly reminded of the last time I saw Morgan dance: back in fifth grade during the infamous hobbies class. After I'd played “Dance of the Blessed Spirits,” taking credit for the pianist's acrobatic performance, Morgan had danced ballet steps in the confined space beside the teacher's desk. Even when the CD got stuck she soldiered on, trusting the music she heard in her head, immersed in the beauty of her own performance rather than the sounds of stifled laughter from the kids in the class. She was so small back then, so fragile, but so much braver than I could ever be.

I look back at the field as Morgan sways in an imaginary breeze. So all these years she's continued to dance in private, avoiding the judgment that comes from opening up, being herself. I want to stand up and applaud her, but the first rumblings from the crowd aren't so appreciative. A few members of the opposing team have even begun laughing at her and pointing at Brandon—I guess they think he's still dating her.

Morgan doesn't seem to notice the intrusion, leaping from left to right and turning graceful circles on the spot. Meanwhile, a few of the cheerleaders have distanced themselves from her, creating a cushion in case the crowd turns against her any more.

Which they do. Most of the opposing team is now openly taunting her, and Brandon looks like he's getting mad. I figure it's only a matter of time before he says something back to them.

“Loser,” he crows. I try to see who he's shouting at, and realize it's Morgan.

Hold on.
Morgan
?

“Give it up, freak,” Brandon jeers, like he doesn't realize almost everyone present can hear him.

Morgan looks over suddenly, loses her balance, and crumples to the ground. Taylor rushes to her side and tries to help her up, but Morgan holds her ankle gingerly. As Brandon's insults compete with the frenetic music, I wonder if the grimace on Morgan's face has anything to do with her ankle.

Taylor tries to help her up again, but Morgan doesn't budge; she just stares at the ground, like the laughter rattling all around her is nothing more than she expected. I can see tears cascade down her cheeks, and when she finally gets up she does so alone. She looks straight ahead as she hobbles off the field. As soon as she rounds the bleach
ers, the music stops abruptly.

I look at Brandon, watching as the coach calls him over. He'll be thrown out of the game for sure now. He'll probably have to forgo the rest of the season for something like this.

“Now!” yells the coach. Brandon slopes over and stands before him, completely unrepentant.

“Listen up, Trent. Drop the commentary, okay? Remember, these are the semis. You've got more important things to think about than chicks.”

This has to be a joke; he cannot seriously let Brandon off. I look at the rest of the team, watching to see if anybody else appears rem
otely outraged, but no one even seems to notice what's going on. Only Spud stares at Brandon, his eyes narrowed like he's trying not to pass gas.

Without thinking, I turn the corner and rush behind the bleachers, following Morgan. I crash into her almost immediately—she's leaning unsteadily against a metal support, trying to keep her weight off her ankle.

“I
…
I … I'm so sorry, Morgan. It was so wrong of Brandon to do that.”

“Whatever.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

“But it was disgraceful. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with saying stuff like that.”

“Just go away.”

“No, I won't go away. Something needs to be done.
Aren't you going to do something?”

She lifts her eyes and glares at me. “Don't speak to me, Kevin. Don't you
dare
speak to me. You're the worst one of all.”

“W-What? Why?”

“Because of that freakin' book you're compiling.” She grabs her breasts, shoves them upwards. “See these? Small, aren't they? And that's with a padded bra on … Are you getting all this? I don't want you to miss any of it. I'm an A cup, okay? So go ahead and write it.” She starts to cry again.

“I'm not going to write it, Morgan,” I say quietly.

“Why not? That's all you see, isn't it? A tight butt and small tits. A bunch of measurements, statistics.”

“It's not like that.”

“Bullshit. I know
exactly
what it's like. As long as I prance around half naked, everything's cool. As long as I let Brandon touch me any way he wants, everything's cool. As long as I pretend not to notice boys ogling me, everything's cool. But as soon as I say I've had enough, I'm frigid. And when I dance the way I want to, I'm taunted.” She stares off into the distance. “Why is it so wrong for me to be mysel
f
?”

“It's not wrong. That was a beautiful dance, Morgan … reminded me of fifth grade—”

“When I should've learned my lesson,” she chokes.

“No. This is isn't your fault. Brandon shouldn't have said those things.”

“Stop it, Kevin. Just stop it, okay? You want me to believe you actually give a crap about what Brandon says to me, but you're just the same as him … and I guess I figured you were different. All of us thought you were different.”

A collective gasp draws our attention, back through gaps in the bleachers to the field of play. The ball flies through the air momentarily, then Brandon makes a diving catch and unleashes a bullet throw to first base, where the runner is tagged out before he can get back—a double play. Inning over. The crowd cheers. His teammates mob him.

Morgan takes a deep breath and grits her teeth. Her jawbones flex. “If you want to help—if you
really
want to help—then explain something to me: how come Brandon Trent gets to hurt me, abuse me, and humiliate me, but I'm the one hiding behind the bleachers while everybody chants his name?”

She doesn't wait for a reply, but hobbles off in the direction of the parking lot, confused and hopelessly alone.

As soon as she's gone it occurs to me that she desperately needed a hug, but I was too slow to react. Then again, why should I get to hug her and tell her it's all going to be okay, when I'm the reason it's not?