Busted (17 page)

33

S
chool's over for the day, and I'm hiding behind the trees that border the student parking lot. It's a risky place to be—any number of things could happen to me out here. I could get in trouble for loitering; I could get lynched by GRRLS; I could witness freshmen making out. But I wait anyway, because I need to talk to Morgan, and I need to talk to her alone.

By four o'clock almost every car in the lot has gone, but Morgan still hasn't appeared. Her white Miata is parked in the space nearest the school entrance, because she's always the first to arrive in the morning. No wonder even the teachers love her.

Eventually she emerges and sashays over to her car. She's smiling, as usual, and suddenly I find this very admirable. I mean, just last week Brandon publicly humiliated her and her friends turned their backs on her. If anyone ought to patrol the corridors with a scowl etched on her face, it's Morgan.

“Hey, Morgan,” I say, mirroring her smile.

“Huh?” She looks over at me as I push the last branch out of the way. “Oh God, it's you, Kevin. Stay away, I've got Mace.”

“No, it's cool,” I say without thinking, maybe because that's what I've heard Brandon say when guys threaten him for hooking up with their girlfriends.

“No, Kevin, it's not cool. It's so totally not cool.”

“Oh.” This never happens to Brandon. “Okay.”

Morgan unlocks her car and is about to climb in when she glances at me. I think my slumped shoulders are weakening her resistance.

“Just one question,” she says, leaning against the car door. “Was it worth it?”

I hesitate. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

I look away. “I guess I liked being popular, you know? I liked being noticed. But now the people I care about the most hate me, so … no,” I say emphatically. “It wasn't worth it.”

“Are you just saying that because you got caught?”

“Well, it doesn't exactly help any.”

To my surprise, Morgan laughs. “What the hell were you thinking? I know these Graduation Rituals have been going on for years, but this year your mom was teaching a
Women's Studies
course. You must have realized that was going to change everything.”

“I didn't know she was teaching it until I'd agreed to do the book. I guess I just hoped she wouldn't find out about it.”

Morgan laughs even harder. “Are you serious? She's your mom. How could you possibly think she wouldn't find out?”

I just shake my head, because there's really nothing to say. When I look up again, Morgan looks more serious.

“What is it you want to say to me, Kevin? Why are you here?”

I take a deep breath and tell her what I've been thinking about all weekend—my Grand Plan. It's complicated, and I know she's reluctant to help me after everything I've done, but I'm hoping that the chance to get back at Brandon is too much for her to resist.

She spends a few minutes pulling a variety of indecisive faces, but finally settles on a smile that tells me she's willing to play her part. And for the first time in weeks I feel proud of myself. Not cool. Not popular. Just proud.

“Do you need a ride home?” she asks, sinking into the leather bucket seat.

“Sure.”

I clamber in and she pulls away slowly, checking her mirrors and signaling like a law-abiding adult. If she weren't so beautiful, Morgan would have to be considered one of the dorkiest girls in school.

“Have you and Abby ever dated?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Um … it's just never happened. What about you and Brandon? How did that happen?”

Morgan groans. “He was the first boy to ask me out since freshman year. I guess I just wanted to have a date again.”

I take a quick peek to see if she's kidding, but she doesn't seem to be.

“But that's impossible. Every guy at Brookbank wants to date you.”

“That's kind of you to say, but it doesn't change the fact that before Brandon, no one had asked me out in three years. I think I just wanted to feel … wanted. And Brandon's so popular and everything. I got suckered in, I guess.”

“So who are you going to prom with?”

“I'm not going with anyone. Today, all of the girls from the Women's Studies class decided to go solo. With everything that's happened the past few weeks, we figure it'll make things less stressful in the long run.”

I can't help smiling. “That'll make my mom proud. She really loved teaching you. She said you were the best students she's had in years.”

“Yeah?” Morgan is obviously touched. She takes a deep breath. “I wish we hadn't told her to leave. It was all kind of heat-of-the-moment, you know? Do you reckon she'd come back if we asked?”

“No, I don't think so. Not because of me … just because she's already achieved what she set out to do. Like, you're all standing up for each other now, and before long Brandon and his posse won't know what hit them. I think she'd say that's a job well done.”

Morgan laughs again, a soft, gentle laugh that warms me from the inside out. “I like the sound of that,” she says.

She follows my directions and soon I'm home. She puts the car in park and pulls up the hand brake, then turns to face me.

“Abby was right about you. You're not such a bad guy after all.”

It's not quite the compliment I was hoping for, but when Morgan leans over and tries to kiss me on the cheek, I
pull away
.

“Whoa!” she exclaims. “What was that for? I was just giving you a friendly peck on the cheek. It's not like I was trying to French kiss you or anything!”

I can feel my cheeks burning red. “I know. I mean … I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that.”

She stares out her window crossly, so I undo the seat belt and open my car door. And that's when it hits me.

“Actually, I do know why I pulled away.”

“Oh yeah, why's that?”

“Because that's Abby's house.” I point next door. “And I think I'm … I think I—”

“It's okay.” Morgan is smiling again. “I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you're back to being you again.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. “But I always figured you thought I was a total geek.”

“Yeah, of course. But that doesn't mean I didn't admire you, or find you interesting. It just means that unlike Brandon, you've got a functioning brain cell.” She laughs again at the look on my face. “Maybe you need to work on embracing your geekiness.”

I climb out. Morgan pulls away, and I'm left standing on the sidewalk. It's sunny and warm, and I feel unbelievably contented. Not only is Morgan Giddes my new friend, but I think I'm … I think I …

34

N
o
w don't forget, baseball final's this Thursday at seven,” says Brandon, pacing along the gap between the tables. “I e
xpect all of you to be there.”

Everyone cheers, but the sound is rather pathetic on account of the fact that there are only eleven guys left. I realize that they're all members of the baseball team, with the exception of me.

“You got that, Kevin?” Brandon looks directly at me, apparently coming to the same realization himself.

“Yeah, wouldn't miss it for anything,” I say truthfully.

“Cool. So before we get onto the Book of Busts, I have to ask why the hell the Strategic Graffiti Campaign is still so far behind schedule. Anybody got an excuse?”

“'Cause no one's doing it except you and me,” Zach grumbles, with an impressively pouty lower lip.

Brandon shakes his head disappointedly. “Well, that's going to change.”

Zach pulls out a few pieces of paper and hands one to each of us, along with a thick-nibbed Sharpie. I study the paper, which contains a series of inspired one-liners like “Kayla is a transvestite” and “Morgan is a frigid slut.” Apparently Zach isn't completely clear on oxymorons.

“So,” Brandon continues, “we're all going to take these sheets and visit the girls' bathrooms. Then we're going to write these little quotes on every available inch of wall space. Got it?”

He looks around, waiting for us to indicate that we share his unbridled enthusiasm for the project. He clearly doesn't like what he sees, because he throws the remaining pieces of paper (I guess Zach thought more guys would show up) on the table in front of him and raises his fist aggressively.

“It's time, guys. If we don't pull together now, what are we? We're pussies, that's what.”

“Damn right,” adds Zach eloquently.

“Look, I'm not being unreasonable here,” Brandon insists, wringing his hands for effect. “Remember, we didn't declare
war on the girls—they declared war on us. And I don't see any Brookbank professors showing up to teach a course on Men's Studies—no offense, Kevin. So now it's our turn to
strike back.” He and Zach exchange a meaningful glance, then look straight at me. “Kevin, you can start us off by writing the fi
rst few quotes.”

So here it is, my moment of reckoning. I take a deep breath.

“Um, no thanks. I don't think so.”

Brandon knows I must be joking, so he gives me a few seconds to laugh or change my mind. Then another few seconds.

“You're kidding, right?”

“No.”

“What the f—”

“You see, Brandon, I don't think this is really the most productive use of our time. In fact, I don't think any of the things we do represent a useful investment of our energies. So I'd like to propose an alternative plan.”

“And what's that?”

“We disband immediately.”

Brandon lets rip a half-crazed laugh. “Now I
know
you're screwing with me.”

“No, Brandon, I'm not.”

He hesitates, narrows his eyes. “Don't mess this up, Mopsely. You were nothing before you joined us, but I made you popular, made you
somebody
. If you walk away now, you'll never have it this good again.”

Even though I'm gripped by fear, I can still see the humor in a comment so far out of whack with reality.

“What's good about this, huh, Brandon? Everyone hates us, and it's easy to see why. Look at us … discussing girls behind their backs, scribbling insults on the walls of their bathrooms when they're not looking, getting their measurements like the numbers somehow mean something. Is this really the best we can do? Don't we have just a little more pride than that?”

No one interrupts my speech, and I let the silence linger. I can almost feel some of the guys coming around, but then Brandon storms to the back of the room and stabs his finger repeatedly against a poster advertising Brookbank's upcoming ten-year reunion.

“You want pride? This is pride,” he mutters menacingly. “Coming back in ten years' time, knowing we accomplished something. You can disappear if you want, but
we
won't fade away. We'll matter then, because we matter now.”

“That's what this is about? Our ten-year reunion?”

“This is the forty-third year of the Graduation Rituals, Mopsely. For forty-two years no one had a problem, but all of a sudden your mom comes in and tradition goes to hell.”

“Of course the girls had a problem with the Rituals. They were just too frightened to complain, that's all. And that doesn't mean everything was okay. It just means we've taken forty-three years too many to shut this thing down.”

Brandon slams his fist against a table. “You're not shutting anything down.”

It's weird, but there's still a part of me that wants to save Brandon from himself, even though I know deep down he's a lost cause. I lean forward.

“Come on, Brandon,” I whisper earnestly. “Let's end this our way.”

“
Our
way? Who the hell do you think you are?” He smiles like my impertinence is comical. “I can't believe I was ever stupid enough to put you in charge of the book. Well, congratulations. You've officially regained loser status.”

“I don't think so,” I reply calmly. “No, I think you're the loser unless you end this.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if I'm such a loser, how come I got to make out with Morgan Giddes while you can't even get with an ugly bitch like Abby White?”

I feel the flash of white-hot anger. A part of me wants to jump Brandon, even though I know he'll beat the crap out of me. A part of me wants to scream that I
have
gotten with Abby, and that Morgan tried to kiss
me
, even though she ditched Brandon when she caught him stealing second. But to my credit, I don't say any of these things. Because this isn't about Abby, or Morgan, or even Brandon—it's about me. And I'm not here to outdo Brandon. I'm here to undo him.

“Come on, Brandon. It's over. You know it is. Look around you … the only guys left are your teammates. Even the football players who flunked remedial algebra had the sense to get out. Let's end this with some dignity.”

Brandon erupts in laughter again, but I can tell he's forcing it now. “Screw dignity, and screw you. You want to go, then go. Just give us the book on your way out.”

“Can't do that … I set fire to it.”

Zach leaps out of his seat. “Bullshit. You wouldn't have the guts.”

Interesting.

“Okay,” I say. “It's in my locker.”

“Well then,” Zach hisses, no doubt enjoying his renewed status as Brandon's undisputed right-hand man, “you've got five minutes to go get it or you'll be dreaming about prom from a hospital bed.”

I can't believe Zach just said something as melodramatic as that—it's really not cool—but maybe he actually means it. To be honest, I'm a little surprised that my performance hasn't yet warranted at least a minor beating, and I don't plan on hanging around long enough for that to change.

“Hold on—Spud!” shouts Brandon, ushering over the human cannonball. “Go with him. Make sure he doesn't try anything.”

Spud obediently falls in step behind me. I really want to get out now, but I can't help taking one last look around the mostly empty room. I expect to see Brandon's grimace on every face, so I'm taken aback at the sight of his teammates. Gone is the swagger, the untouchable self-confidence; they now have the downtrodden appearance of a bedraggled platoon following their leader on one final, hopeless mission. I look back at Brandon, and I know immediately he's seen it too.

“I wish you could just admit you were wrong,” I say, breaking the silence. “The girls would worship you for it, you know … And what are you getting out of this stuff anyway? You think every girl in school figures she owes you something? Are you getting a kick out of being in control?”

Brandon doesn't answer, and he doesn't move—he just stands beside the poster, like that's all the evidence he needs. It's a predictable poster, too: smiling twenty-somethings reliving the glory days of high school. And that's when the truth finally dawns on me.

“Are you afraid, Brandon? That every girl here will forget about you the moment senior year is over? Is that what this is about?”

Brandon rolls his eyes, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Suddenly I have a vision of him in Hooters thirty years from now, professing his adoration for a waitress half his age as neighboring tables jeer him. I have to concentrate to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching into a smile.

“Look, Brandon, I hate to break it to you, but you better hope they
do
forget about you. Because at our ten-year reunion, the ones who remember you won't be looking back on the good ol' days … they'll just be wondering how on earth you ever made them care.”

As Spud and I walk out, I can already hear a hushed murmur behind me, and I know that Brandon will be doing everything in his power to keep the Rituals going. Maybe it's because he can't let a dork like Kevin Mopsely derail any project he masterminds, or maybe it's because I've seen his glaring weakness: Brookbank's star jock has already reached his prime, and it's all downhill from here.

“Listen, Spud,” I say, knowing what's about to happen and wanting to spare him the humiliation, “you may not want to come with me. 'Cause I'm not giving the book to Brandon, I'm just not. And things are about to get crazy.”

Spud arches an eyebrow theatrically. “Things are already crazy.”

Whoa! Spud Beasley just
spoke
.

“You just … spoke,” I gasp, even though that's quite a rude thing to say.

“Of course I spoke. You think that ‘Dude, like, whoa' stuff is all I've got? I just do that because it's my role, you know? Tough guy, man of few words, speaks with his fists, that sort of thing. I just figured it would simplify my interactions with peers if I presented a consistent and coherent persona. You understand?”

“Whoa.”

“Thing is, I was going to come with you anyway. What you said back there, it's true. It's time to close shop on this stuff.”

“B-But … you're the editor of the Alternative Yearbook.
”

Spud grins sheepishly. “Yeah, another book that Brandon won't be getting his hands on.”

“Are you sure? I mean, we're about to enter the Twilight Zone.”

“No need to get all geeky about it. I'm in. I have to be.”

“Why's that?”

Spud's head droops and he stops walking. “See, I tell my counselor everything. Except for some reason I never mentioned the Rituals. And just then, when you were giving your little soliloquy, I finally worked out why.” He sighs. “It's like, of all the stupid things I've done at Brookbank High, this is the only one I'm really ashamed of.”

Without thinking about it, I give Spud an awkward man-hug, like professional athletes do knowing they shouldn't but—aw, shucks—they're just that happy. Spud stares
at me like I just committed a cardinal sin, so I cough ostentatiously
and get back to business.

“You got the Alternative Yearbook with you?” I ask, and Spud taps his bag affirmatively. “Okay, we're off to room 225.”

Spud grabs my shoulder. “Room 225? Isn't that where GRRLS meets?”

“Yep. But they usually meet during English period.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.” He visibly relaxes.

“Except for today.”

“When are they meeting today?”

I study my watch like it matters. “Let's see … Right about now.”