Busted (3 page)

Things haven't changed significantly over the past few years. We're best friends, confidants, and partners in crime, but that's all. Contrary to popular belief, we're not, nor have we ever been, an item—although Abby's constant presence ensures that no other girl will look twice at me. It's like she forms an exclusion zone for unidentified estrogen.

Not that we don't have fun together, but sometimes I feel like we resemble a comedy duo instead of a potential couple. We have the kind of Laurel and Hardy relationship that makes Ms. Kowalski laugh at my expense, the kind of chemistry that makes me seem not just uncool, but borderline asexual. We're friends without benefits, Abby and me. And there's a reason they call them benefits.

I've had eighteen years to be noticed, to be
somebody
, but so far all I've accomplished is a near miss with Natasha, a fake Frenchie with Alyssa, and an eternally platonic coupling with Abby. I am what I've always been: official class dork, ignored by anyone remotely popular. Even when including teachers, I can count my friends on one hand. So I guess that Ms. Kowalski is right about me. Maybe she knows me even better than I know myself.

But that's about to change. There's less than two months of high school remaining. It's time I made them count.

4

D
ude. Like. Whoa.”

Spud Beasley has a way with words, so everyone maintains a respectful silence until they're sure he's finished. Even then they all wait until it's absolutely, positively clear he's satisfied with his little pearl of wisdom.

Got to hand it to Spud—he may speak with the directness of one of his infamous curveball pitches, but he always has an audience. Of course, the reason he has an audience is because he's like that dwarf Gimli in the
Lord of the Rings
movies: all grunts and simmering testosterone. If we were ever crazy enough to give him an ax, he'd probably take out half the school before anyone even noticed he'd gone postal in the first place. Rumor is, his latest counselor describes him as “volatile.”

No one knows what happened to the other counselors.

“Dude. Like … Whoa.”

Spud's done it again, which is really interfering with Brandon's account of yesterday evening's dalliance with Tiffany. I get the feeling Brandon would like to ask Spud to keep his guttural sounds to himself, but he's aware that college juniors won't be so attracted to him if he's missing a limb or two.

Instead, he waits for Spud.

Everyone waits for Spud.

Spud nods to show he's finished.

Everyone breathes again.

Brandon looks at his watch. “What the hell, let's get started.”

He ambles to the front of the classroom, apparently pleased with the turnout for the meeting: a full quota of guys fr
om the baseball, football, and basketball teams, plus other aspiring alpha males. As he opens his arms wide in a gesture of welcome, his smile morphs into a smirk, and before I can catch up with what's happening, he's cackling demonically and his infectious laugh has everyone in the room laughing with him. I join in too, although it's tough to feign laughter when you're petrified. I feel a sense of masochistic pride just for having the nerve to be here.

Brandon looks around the room, sizing us up. Zach, his brown-nosing protégé, stamps the ground excitedly when Brandon looks over at him, but Brandon just flips him the bird and keeps on scanning. Eventually he sees me.

“What the f—”

I shift my butt on the plastic chair and conjure a nervous smile. I don't belong here, and I've already been found out. Thank God he didn't actually use the f-word.

“Mopsely, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Oh well, at least he knows my name.

I take a deep breath. “I just, um, want to be part of the, the … you know, the Graduation, er … ” Crap. I can't remember the name.
I can't even remember the name
. “A part of the, er … ”

“The Graduation Rituals,” says Brandon, as if this is becoming too painful even for him.

“Yeah, the Rituals.”

Brandon's smirk is back and everyone is pretending to try not to laugh, so the laughter comes out in coughs and snorts. I can feel my face flashing red, heating the air around me.

“Right,” says Brandon gravely. “So, which part of the Graduation Rituals were you hoping to be involved in? Maybe the Alternative Yearbook, huh?” Everyone laughs. “Or maybe the Strategic Graffiti Campaign?” Everyone laughs even louder. “No, no, I know … you want to compile the Book of Busts, right? That must be it. Come on, Mopsely, tell us which one. You just say what you want and it's yours.”

I know he's not serious, and so does everyone else—their laughter is so riotous that I want to evaporate. Two minutes in and all I can think about is getting away. But as the noise dies down Brandon's still staring at me, like he's actually waiting for me to respond. Somehow the silence is even worse than laughter.

Okay, Kevin, think. What were the options again? Something about graffiti (oh God, no), and … and … I'm about to ask Brandon to repeat the list when I remember the Book of Busts. Now, that I can handle. After all, tons of people have been busted—big time—at Brookbank High this year. Like that freshman who got an essay published in Seventeen magazine before they realized it was plagiarized. Or the two juniors who got caught trying to shoplift a pair of Manolo Blahniks, then threatened to sue the store when they discovered they were knockoffs. Or the guy who broke his thermometer in chem lab just to get the school evacuated while the hazmat team cleared up the mercury.

“Yo, Earth to Mopsely. What's it going to be?” yawns Brandon.

I swallow hard. “Um, maybe the Book of Busts.”

More laughter.

“Get real, Mopsely,” explodes Zach. “Like Brandon's gonna let you anywhere near the Book of Busts!”

Brandon looks up sharply. He doesn't seem to appreciate the interruption. “Why shouldn't I, Zach?”

“Because I'm compiling the book. Remember? It's mine.”

“I think that's up to me. Or are you in charge now?”

Zach blanches. “But Kevin's a dork. He probably doesn't even know what the Book of Busts is.”

“Or maybe he's not a dork,” counters Brandon, like he's forgotten I'm sitting two feet away from him. “And maybe he
does
know about the book.”

“Bullshit.”

Suddenly, there's total silence. Brandon remains completely, eerily still, staring at Zach unblinkingly. I feel caught in the middle of a battle of wills, and neither side appears to be backing down.

Brandon takes a deep breath and claps a hand on my shoulder. “The Book of Busts is a
calling
, Mopsely. Do you get what I'm saying?” I nod, although I truly have no idea what he's talking about. “Generations of Brookbank seniors have compiled the book. It's a serious business. Zach doesn't think you're up to it. What do
you
think?”

I can feel every pair of eyes boring into me. They all know I'm a fraud. I know I'm a fraud. Now I just want to get out of this unscathed.

“S-Sure, Brandon. I'm up to it.”

Brandon narrows his eyes and leans over the table. “Yeah? Zach doesn't think so. So how about you tell him where
you plan to start?”

I know this is make-or-break time. Either I say something smart and get to walk away with my dignity, or I fail miserably and enter the FBI Witness Protection Program.

“I, er … ” I stall for time, mentally filing through Brookbank's catalog of busts. And then it hits me: “I'd start with Taz Green and Erica Roberts,” I blurt out. “I mean, that's got to be the biggest bust.”

There's a moment's pause, but suddenly Brandon is smiling and smacking me on the back playfully. And then most of the rest of the guys start laughing and whooping too.

“Shit,” Brandon exclaims, like it's the ultimate compliment. “I have to admit it, Mopsely, you're dead on … that is the biggest bust, probably in school history. What do you say now, Zach? You still think Kev's a dork?”

Zach curls his upper lip and flashes a tortured smile, his bright white teeth like a neat row of tombstones.

I can't help thinking that Taz and Erica's breakup is probably
not
the biggest bust in school history. But as it involved some suspect pot and an inflatable doll, it certainly scores high on shock value. In any case, I'm too relieved to disagree.

“So, Mopsely … I mean, Kev,” continues Brandon earnestly, “I want you to know we're all here for you, okay? Like you say, you're going to want to start with Taz, 'cause he's the only one who dated Erica. I reckon he'll be more than willing to spill the beans—”

I'm nodding furiously, but after the way Taz got caught, I figure he'll be the last person to talk.

“—And then you'll need to talk to all the guys here, see what they can come up with for you, you know?” Brandon pauses, so I automatically nod. “But there'll still be gaps, and you're really going to have to use some ingenuity.” Another pause. Another nod. “What I'm saying is, it's a lot of work. We'll be meeting every week—twice a week if we have to— so you've got be committed. You are committed, right?”

I gaze longingly at the door. “Um, yeah.”

Brandon stares Zach down triumphantly, then smacks my back again. “Wow, and to think, all this time I thought you were a total loser.” He sweeps his arm across his body as though preaching to everyone present. “But you've shown us we need to be open-minded … Turns out, not every guy who plays the
f
lute is a complete fag.”

It's as close to a compliment as I've ever heard from Brandon, and even though I feel like I've just been adopted as the group's geeky mascot, I can't suppress a smile. I'm going get through this after all.

Now all the guys except Zach are cheering and stamping again, and with my fears temporarily assuaged, I bob my head in time with their rhythmic clapping. The room hums with energy as Brandon reaches into his bag and presents me with a folder emblazoned with the words “Book of Busts.”

“For the record,” he whispers conspiratorially, confident that everyone is listening, “I'll take care of Morgan Giddes. Word is, the chick's a virgin, so she might need some special attention.”

While Brandon silences the applause that follows his every announcement, I can't help wondering what happened to Tiffany. But as no one else seems to be concerned with this particular detail, I figure there must be an explanation.

“In the meantime,” continues Brandon, “you can start with the measurements of that girl you hang out with … Abby, right? You must have had her a few times by now.”

I want to believe I misheard him—but I know I heard him perfectly. My head stops bobbing and I begin hyperventilating. I feel like I'm about to pass out, but since that won't do much for my new reputation, I bury my head in the folder instead.

There's not much inside—just a few pages reproducing the senior portraits of every girl in the class. And below each photo are spaces for her measurements: bust, waist, hips.

Bust, waist, hips.

Bust. Waist. Hips.

Oh crap.
The Book of Busts, in which are recorded the bust, waist, and hip sizes of every senior girl
…

I know I'm burning a peculiar shade of red right now, but I can't help it. My body's wired on adrenaline, my brain's popping like static. One moment I'm calculating the distance to the door in case I decide to make a break for it, the next I'm considering if it's too late to transfer schools. I try to refocus by turning away from the cheering throngs and staring out the window that overlooks the main corridor.

As the guys serenade me with one last round of applause for not being the ignorant dork I actually am, Principal Jefferies passes along the corridor with Ms. Kowalski. Hearing the cheers, they stop to peer through the little window in the door, watching in surprise as I'm welcomed into Brandon's hip fraternity.

Jefferies nods approvingly, in stark contrast to Ms. Kowalski—who shakes her head disappointedly and quickly strides away.

5

A
s fate would have it, English with Ms. Kowalski is my first class after lunch. I hope that the past ten minutes have been enough time for her to suffer comprehensive short-term amnesia.

Ms. Kowalski stands behind her desk, methodically scanning the class as it settles down like she's weighing each student's worth. It's a study of extremes, that's for sure. In this particular group, the brightest and the stupidest members of the senior class coexist in a state of barely concealed disdain, united only in their utter contempt for me. Which is why it's just as well Ms. K is always on my side. At least, she usually is, but I keep waiting for her to make eye contact with me and she never does. I sense my foray into Brandon's World is about to prove costly to my grade.

“Do you all know about the Graduation Rituals?” she finally asks, fiddling nervously with her bangs.

“Of course,” says Morgan Giddes cheerily. “It's where the boys write graffiti in the girls' bathroom stalls, and where the girls get to tell the boys their measurements. Stuff like that.”

Most of the class is nodding in agreement, as though this is as obvious and well-known as school being boring and teachers being uncool.

“And how does that make you feel?” continues Ms. K.

“It makes me feel good,” shouts Ryan Morton from the back row. “I mean,
real
good—”

“Yes, I'm sure it does, Ryan, but there's really no need to shout in class.”

“Was I?” Ryan furrows his unibrow, then studies his lap. “Oh crap, I forgot to turn my iPod down. Sorry.”

Ms. K shifts her weight back and forth. I imagine she's wondering if the pleasure of disciplining Ryan is adequate compensation for sacrificing an entire class period; she obviously decides that it's not. “What about you, girls? How do these Graduation Rituals make you feel?”

Paige Tramell raises her hand daintily. “I guess it kind of depends on whether you're pretty and popular. Like, what are they going to write about
me
on the stalls, right? And why would
I
care about revealing photographs?”

Ms. K is getting depressed—I know the signs.

“I mean, like, I'm comfortable with how I look,” Paige continues earnestly. “I exfoliate and moisturize twice a day, so I guess I'm going to be okay no matter what kind of photos they take, you know?”

Ms. K blinks slowly, like she's half-expecting that someone as shallow as Paige might not really exist. But when she opens her eyes, Paige is still there, patiently awaiting a response. Ms. K swallows hard. “Doesn't it bother any of you to see women—because that's what you are now—
objectified
like that?”

I look around and quickly work out that no one but me knows what she means. Ms. K has worked it out too.

“What I'm trying to say is, aren't you offended by the idea of judging women only according to their looks?”

Morgan sighs and turns in her seat so that she's addressing the whole class. “I think what Ms. Kowalski is trying to say is, doesn't it upset you all to be misrepresented?”

Ms. K nods enthusiastically. She smiles beatifically at her kindred spirit, and Morgan smiles back, adding, “'Cause I know I'd be pissed as hell if they said I was anything less than a C cup.”

Ms. Kowalski is still smiling, but then her face catches up with her brain and she shakes her head violently from side to side.

“No, no, no. You've totally misunderstood me. It's not about cup size, and it shouldn't be about looks, either.”

Paige reenters the fray. “Guys, what she's saying is that the whole system's unfair.” Ms. K sighs in relief. “Like, it's all fine and dandy for those of us who are cute and popular and all, but what about ugly girls? It must completely suck for them.”

Ms. K wrings her hands, but she has evidently given up trying to make her point. In a way, I feel bad for her. She's not even thirty yet, but I can see the idealism that drove her into teaching trickling away every time one of us opens our mouths.

As a last resort, Ms. K glances my way, which is what she does whenever she needs me to explain what she's talking about. But just as quickly, she shakes her head and looks away. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. I can't help feeling kind of hurt. Because in spite of what she thinks, belonging to Brandon's cohort does not suddenly make me a bad person.

Besides, if the Book of Busts is so offensive, then how come it doesn't bother Paige and Morgan? They seem keen to contribute in any way they can, and I can think of lots of ways they can help me out, both theoretically and practically.

Ms. K shakes her head at me again as I leave the class, but this time I just ignore her.