Busted (5 page)

“You know,” I say, stalling, “I think we call each other so we can pretend we're not going to end up talking for an hour, even though we always do.”

She laughs politely, but I can tell it's not what she wanted to hear. By the time I look up again she's closed her blind.

“What was wrong this afternoon, Kev? You seemed weird after practice.”

“Nothing was wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I just … I'm just afraid people at the prom won't think our music's cool.”

She groans. “You've got to stop worrying about what other people think is cool. If you enjoy it, why do you care what they think?”

“You're right, I know, but it worries me, that's all. I can't help it.”

“Listen. For what it's worth, I think you're so much cooler than them.”

“Who?”

“The people you're afraid won't find the music cool. You know, Brandon and his gang. Really, you're cooler and smarter and funnier than they'll ever be. And I can't tell you how pleased I am that you're not like them.”

Our calls always seem to end like this, with Abby complimenting me. Only this time it's not so reassuring. Because as I close my cell phone, it occurs to me that I
am
one of them.

8

I
'm sitting at a baseball game and Brookbank High is winning. Actually, we're winning by so much that the score resembles that of a football game, but that's normal. Brookbank's team is legendary, and each year the coach parlays his city championship into yet another pay raise. This year will be no different.

It's a warm, late-spring evening and there's a pretty good crowd here, which enables me to stay hidden at the back of the bleachers. I don't want anybody to speak to me because they'll just ask me why I'm here, and then I'll have to admit that Brandon and the rest of the team coerced me into coming.

We're between innings, and Brandon's current girl of choice, Morgan, is taking her role as cheerleading captain very seriously. Starved of anything to cheer about all year—all our other teams suck—she encourages the cheerleaders to cavort wildly on the sidelines, inciting the crowd to attempt the wave. A couple of senior guys are game and jump out of their seats, spraying Red Bull all over the spectators around them. By the time the game resumes, they've been escorted out of the ballpark.

Brandon steps up to bat, looking like a blond-haired Derek Jeter. Like his idol, he plays shortstop. In Brandon's case, the position is rich in sexual symbolism: he's splitting his time between second and third bases, a grope here and a dry hump there. And that's just when he's being defensive. Put him on the offense and his ability to hit home runs is legendary. Ask any girl.

He hits a home run on the first pitch, and the scoreboard tilts even more heavily in favor of our team. Brandon bows his head modestly and begins a steady jog around the bases. As he passes second, he glances up and winks at Morgan, who claps her hands appreciatively. I can't help wondering if Brandon's choice of second base is symbolic, a way of communicating his intention to get under her shirt tonight. If so, Morgan is either blissfully ignorant or ecstatic about it.

As Brandon reaches home plate, the announcer explains that with a difference of fifteen runs the mercy rule will be applied and the game is over. It's only the fifth inning. I can't believe my luck. I decide to run home so I can go to Abby's and catch a movie, but then I hear Brandon calling to me:

“Kev, we're hitting IHOP. It's kind of lame, but Ryan's dating one of the waitresses so we always get free stuff. Spud'll give you a ride.”

I'm about to make an excuse when Morgan sidles up to Brandon and starts fawning over him. He places a hand behind her head and pulls her forward, and within seconds they're tonguing with Olympic intensity.

“Dude. Like. Whoa.”

Spud stands beside me, and in spite of his monosyllabic conversational skills, I can't help feeling I have a lot more in common with him than with Brandon.

“I guess we'll have Morgan's scores by Monday,” I say under my breath.

Spud nods. “Dude.”

On the way to IHOP I seriously begin to question my transition to Brookbank's social elite. After all, while I'm riding shotgun with Spud in his sputtering Chevy Nova, wondering what's holding all the pieces of rust together, Brandon's riding shotgun with Morgan in her Miata, probably scanning through the tracks on her iPod until he finds the right make-out song. I'm no expert, but these seem like the polar extremes of coolness, and right now I'm definitely on the wrong end.

Spud's car stalls at the entrance to the IHOP parking lot. As we push it into a disabled parking space, I have the unsettling feeling that I was more hip when I was just a geeky flutist. I've gone from bad to worse—a classic Mopsely maneuver.

I
nside, the baseball team has commandeered a few booths, but everyone fights to share Brandon's table. He doesn't seem to notice, since he's busy giving Morgan
one last tongue. Then he pats her on the butt and sends her packing to the cheerleaders' booth. As I follow Spud toward a mostly empty booth, I hear Brandon calling me over to join him.

“But there's no room,” Zach scowls, as soon as he sees me.

“Are you sure about that?” says Brandon. “Because if there isn't, you
're going to need to move. Kev's my guest of honor.” He punches my arm in ritualistic greeting.

Zach shifts a few inches, grumbling under his breath. I sit down gingerly and glance at the baseball players across from me. They all have that sheen of sweaty masculinity, even though most of them never broke into a jog the whole game.

“What can I get you boys?” asks a kind-looking woman, her face a tangle of laugh lines.

“Well, for a start you can get us a waitress who's under sixty,” mutters Zach. “Grab Keira.” He points across the table at Ryan. “This guy's banging her at the moment.”

The woman blinks a few times. She looks as though she's about to say something, but instead she just studies each of our faces like she's memorizing details for the voodoo dolls she plans to make later.

“What was that all about?” muses Brandon, as soon as she leaves.

“Weird,” comments Zach profoundly.

Moments later Keira sidles up to our table, flushed red with embarrassment.

“Hey, Ryan,” she whispers, then bites her lower lip nervously and fiddles with her paper pad.

“Hey, babe,” Ryan bellows. “How much free shit'll you be able to get us tonight?”

Keira spins around like she's expecting to find the manager beside her taking notes.

“I don't know, okay? It's not easy. And now you've upset Janet, and she's the manager's wife, so I'll have to be real careful.”

Ryan shakes his head disgustedly. “Whatever. Don't do us any favors or nothing. I'm just your boyfriend, that's all. Nothing special.”

“Oh, Ryan, I'm sorry. I'll take care of it, okay? Food's on me tonight. I'll pay out of my tips.”

Keira takes our orders, but I can't bear to ask for anything. Ryan notices and orders the most expensive item on the menu fo
r me. Keira winces, then leaves.

“That was good, man,” applauds Zach, chinking his glass of water against Ryan's. “Do you even like this chick, or is it just about the free food?”

“Some of both, you know?”

Zach nods and crunches an ice cube loudly between his teeth.

“Hey, guys,” says Paige, venturing over from the cheerleaders' booth. “Whassup?”

Paige Tramell is hot and she knows it. She's tied her blond hair back in two long pigtails that scream
I'm-cute-and-I'm-innocent!
and she's changed into a bright white crop top (she always dresses in white to be ironic) that shows off her belly button ring. All the guys stare unblinkingly at her tummy, but she pretends not to notice, so I figure she doesn't mind. I look too.

“Haven't seen you here before, Kevin,” she says.

I feel my head jerking back up to her face. “No, I
…
”

“He's one of us now,” says Brandon, wrapping a muscled arm around me. “Trust me, Kevin's big time.”

“Oh yeah?” Paige's brows knit momentarily, but then she smiles and bites her lip in a really sexy way. “I'll have to remember that,” she says, tapping her finger against her head. “That's the kind of thing a girl ought to know, Kevin.”

Just to hear her say my name makes my legs go to Jell-O. I try to think of something to say, but my mouth just flaps open and shut a few times like a fish starved of oxygen. Eventually I look away. I know it's a dorky response, but I don't care. I want to bottle this moment and keep it for the rest of my life.

I've officially entered the ranks of the cool.

9

I
'm trying not to ogle Morgan and Taylor, but it's difficult. They're sitting on either side of me, forming a Kevin sandwich with their pretty faces and beautiful breasts. As they lean over our shared table in a way that reminds me how truly feminine they are, I worry that my hard-on won't wear off before class ends. But then I realize what a wonderful problem that is to have, and offer a silent prayer of thanks to Brandon.

While she waits for everyone to calm down—which always takes up the first ten minutes of every English class—Ms. Kowalski glares at our unlikely trio. If she were a guy I'd say she's just jealous of me, but instead I assume this is all related to the Graduation Rituals. I never realized how much it would bug her. And I certainly never guessed she'd call my mom. I don't think that Ms. K and I are best buddies anymore.

For most of class Ms. K monologues on everything from Sylvia Plath to split infinitives, and the room gets progressively quieter. Eventually she runs out of steam, sits down, and rummages through her notes.

“All right,” she says with forced enthusiasm, “in honor of our baseball team's recent success, I'd like to discuss your favorite sports movies.”

“
Friday Night Lights
,” shouts Ryan, whose status as one of the pitchers for the victorious team makes him well-qualified to speak without raising his hand. “It's got everything … guys hitting each other, career-ending injuries, domestic violence.”

Beside me, Taylor tuts disapprovingly. “What a profound basis for a movie.” Even when she's pissed, her voice is rich and sexy.

“You just don't understand it 'cause you're a girl.”

“Another profound observation.”

“
Now, now,” interjects Ms. K, “I think what Ryan's saying is that he appreciates the way these movies affirm his masculinity. Isn't that right, Ryan?”

Ryan stares at her blankly. I think the tiny part of his brain that still functions is gradually turning to mush.

“Ryan?”

It's painfully amusing to watch Ryan stare. If it goes on long enough he may start bleeding from his ears. That would be kind of cool.

“Ryan? Do you think that's reasonable?” Ms. K repeats, an encouraging smile pasted on her face.

Ryan continues his audition for the waxworks museum, and eventually Ms. K looks kind of freaked out. She turns to the rest of the class.

“Anyone else got a favorite sports film?” she says with decidedly less enthusiasm.

Morgan raises her hand, and as she does her hair brushes against my arm. It's soft and smells citrus-y, and it glints in the brightness of the room, and I suddenly have no idea what she's saying.

“That's a good example, Morgan,” Ms. K commends her. “I'm sure we've all seen
A League of Their Own
. But what's the appeal?”

“Are you kidding?” gasps Paige from her customary seat at the back of the room. “There's the cute cast, for a start. Like, Geena Davis before she got old—hot chick. Madonna before she got pregnant—hot chick. And Tom Hanks has got to be the most adorable drunk guy in, like, forever. And even the fat chick gets to be funny, so she's cool too.”

Taylor sighs. “Maybe that's why no one takes women's sports seriously. They're just interested in whether the women are cute or funny.”

“Which is why cheerleading is so important,” says Morgan earnestly. “It shows everyone we're athletic as well.”

“Yeah, great. We stand on the sidelines cheering on the boys. And even then, nobody watches us.”

She's wrong about that, but it's probably not cool for me to admit that whenever I'm forced to attend games I spend the whole time ogling the cheerleaders.

“That's an excellent point, Taylor.” Ms. K claps her hands together. “And quite relevant to what our special guest has come to say.”

Everyone seems as surprised as I am that there's a guest, and that they'd arrive only five minutes before the end of class.

“As you're probably aware,” Ms. K continues, “you have little more than a month of school left. And since it's no secret that we don't give a final exam at the end of senior year, I decided it might be preferable to some of you to broaden your horizons. So, for the rest of the semester, you'll have the option to attend either my class or a class that focuses on women's issues in modern society—like equal opportunities, and sexism, and feminism. It'll be taught by a professor from Brookbank University, and it's open to everyone—”

Ryan snorts loudly, a characteristically intellectual contribution. But I'm not snorting. I'm taking deep breaths, trying to remain calm.

“—She's an inspirational teacher, and will get you thinking about these issues in ways you may never have imagined. I'd recommend it to all of you, but obviously it's optional.” Ms. K looks out to the corridor and beckons the professor in. “I'd like you all to give a big Brookbank welcome to Dr. Maggie Donaldson.”

Dr. Maggie Donaldson enters hurriedly, shakes Ms. Kowalski's hand, then scans the room. She doesn't make eye contact with me, but I look away anyway. I don't need to watch her to know how she looks: she's wearing her silvery hair long because she thinks it looks distinguished, when really it just makes her look old; her bright red fingernail polish is spotty because she bites her nails; she's wearing a long flowery dress with sewn-on satin flowers that her mother bought during a family pilgrimage to San Francisco for the “summer of love,” 1967. Even though it barely hangs together, she says it's her favorite dress.

I look around the room at the other students, expecting to see them making faces at one another—if anyone in history is ripe for a Brookbank High crucifixion, it's her. But no one is laughing. Instead, they're hanging on her every word because she's a college professor, not a teacher. She's the most unfashionable person they've ever seen and she keeps using words most of them won't understand, but they respect her anyway.

For the first time in my life, I am truly jealous of my mom.