Busted (6 page)

10

A
t the first opportunity, all the guys sprint away like they're being chased. Meanwhile, I wait at the back of the room as one by one the girls step forward to sign up for the new class. As they leave, each one casts a nervous glance in my direction, obviously thinking I'd be nuts to sign up for a class on Women's Studies.

They have no idea how right they are.

Eventually only Ms. Kowalski and my mom and me remain, and Ms. K is smirking triumphantly. It's like she's declared war on me and is savoring an early, decisive victory.

“Thanks so much, Dr. Donaldson.”

Mom snorts. “Please, call me Maggie. I think we can do away with formal titles now, can't we?”

Ms. K looks unsure. “Okay … Maggie. But seriously, thanks. I just know this'll be a positive experience for everyone.”

“Oh, it's my pleasure, Jane,” replies Mom.

Jane?
I don't think I ever realized that the J in Ms. J. Kowalski actually stood for anything.

“Jane was one of the finest students I ever taught at Brookbank,” Mom explains to me. “But I've probably told you that many times, right?”

Huh? No, she has not told me that many times. In fact, she's never even mentioned that Ms. K was a student of hers.
This is cruel and unusual.

“Well,” says Ms. K amiably, “I'll leave you two to … to … ” She blushes, then tries to salvage a graceful exit by speeding away.

“I hadn't realized so many of your classmates would be interested in my class,” Mom exclaims. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“Yeah, great. But don't think I'll be coming.”

She laughs. “I wouldn't expect you to. If you don't understand these issues after living with me for eighteen years, then it's probably too late anyway. But Jane seems to think that there are some boys in the senior class who are enforcing unattainable and repugnant ideals of femininity, and she really doesn't want any of the girls to fall afoul of their particular brand of ideological misogyny.”

Okay, so that's how you know my mom's a professor, because she can conjure phrases like “ideological misogyny” without stuttering or pausing to draw her breath. It's strangely impressive and mesmerizing. And it's just dawning on me that the people she's referring to are Brandon Trent's gang. And that includes me.

Then Mom's smile disappears, replaced by a look of concern. “What's the matter?”

“Huh?”

“Come on. You think I can't tell when you're angry?”

“I'm not angry,” I lie.

“Okay, although—”

“All right, then, yeah, I'm angry. How could you do this without telling me?”

Mom carefully places the list of names into her hemp shoulder bag. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen.”

“When?”

“Last week. I told you Ms. Kowalski had called me, and you told me you just wanted some space at school. And I'll give you space, don't worry.”

“So this is what she called you about—doing the class?”

“Yes, obviously. Why else would she call?”

I gulp. “Um, no reason.”

“Kevin, please. I know that something's going on here. Let's just get it all out in the open, okay?”

It's tempting. I've never been good at keeping secrets from Mom, but telling her about the Book of Busts would be equivalent to announcing I've joined a Satanic cult.

“There's nothing else,” I assure her. “I just hadn't expected to see you here. It's a shock, that's all.”

She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, don't worry. I don't want to embarrass you or make your life complicated. You won't even know I'm here!”

Mom saunters off with a lightness of step that I find completely inappropriate and quite enviable.

I'm feeling out of my depth, so I do what I always do when things spiral out of control: I call Abby. She has caller ID, so I know she'll pick up the phone after a single ring. Sure enough, the line clicks to life, but before I can speak her voice erupts on the other end:

“Isn't it wonderful, your mom teaching the Women's Studies course?”

How does she know about that?

“How do you know about that?”

“Because she came into my English class and introduced herself. It's not just your class that's invited to take her course, you know.”

“I wasn't saying that—”

“I think it's so cool what she's doing,” Abby bubbles. “I'm definitely going to go. The way I see it, Brandon and his pack of lap dogs have gotten away with their sexist agenda for long enough.”

I can't believe how like my mom she sounds. It's actually kind of scary.

“Did you hear me, Kev?”

“Yeah.”

“And don't you agree?”

“Uh …”

She coughs meaningfully. “What's going on?”

“What do you mean? Nothing's going on.”

“Kevin …”

I take a deep breath. “Look, if I tell you, do you promise not to give me a hard time?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay … Um, well, you know Brandon's meeting the other day? I sort of, did go to it, actually and … well, it's kind of like I'm … sort of … involved.”

Abby treats me to a lengthy silence before mumbling, “You're kidding me, right?”

“Well … ” Oh geez. Even now I'm tempted to lie to her and pretend that yeah, I'm kidding. “No, I'm not kidding.”

“But why?”

“Because I didn't know what the meeting was about. I had no way of knowing what I was getting into.”

“Crikey, Kev, your mom'll brain you if she finds out. Or she'll just cut you off, or cut you up, or throw you out and disown you—”

“This is not helping, Abby.”

“Sorry, but it's true. Looking on the bright side, at least nobody but me knows she's your mom. I'd forgotten she goes by her maiden name, and it was pretty clear no one knew who she was. Even Nathan and Caitlin didn't recognize her.”

I hadn't considered this. “That could be a lifesaver.”

“For now, sure. But it's only a matter of time before someone makes the connection.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it. It'll happen, and when it does she'll castrate you—”

“Abby!”

“I'm just saying … You know what you have to do, right? You've got to face those guys and say ‘no, I won't be involved in this.' This isn't who you are, Kevin. Brandon's an asshole. You're not.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“Let's just say I have my reasons.”

“Like what?”

Silence. I can hear Abby breathing heavily. “Freshman year, he asked me out.”

“Wha
t
?”

“It was just his little joke. He had his entourage with him, and I knew he wasn't serious. And I wouldn't have dated him even if he had been. But I felt so … powerless, you know? Knowing I was about to become the butt of his joke and there was nothing I could do about it. If I said yes, he'd just laugh. If I said no, he'd say he wasn't serious anyway. So I didn't say anything. After a few seconds he smiled and told me not to stress about it, that he'd get over it soon. He looked s
o serious you'd almost believe he meant it, except that behind him all his cronies were snickering like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. The whole thing only lasted a moment, and I don't think any of them ever thought about it again. But I've never forgotten.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

“Why do you think? Because it was humiliating.”

“But that's just Brandon being Brandon. He doesn't mean anything by it.”

More silence, and this time I can't even hear her breathing. “Oh. I see.”

“I'm not saying it was a nice thing to do, Abby—”

“Please, Kevin,” she says suddenly, earnestly. “Please believe me. You don't want to be like them.” She hesitates, swallows hard. “And I don't want you to be like them.”

She says it so kindly, so tenderly, that I feel grateful to her in spite of her earlier forecasts of dismemberment and castration.

I walk over to my bedroom window and look out. I see Abby's face framed by her bedroom window, her hair draped loosely over her shoulders, a halo glowing around her from the light behind. Her eyes appear moist, but it's probably just a trick of the light. As I continue to gaze at her, it's like I'm looking at an angel. And although I know she's not everybody's idea of beautiful, right now I can't help feeling that she might be mine.

11

I
avoid Ms. Kowalski's gaze throughout English, which isn't hard to do as I'm sitting next to Paige Tramell.

Yes,
Paige Tramell!

I was waiting to see if I might get lucky with Morgan and Taylor again when Paige just plopped down next to me and began talking. She said how weird it was to have that professor come in yesterday, and how she'd never join a Women's Studies class like some of the other girls, and if they weren't all so freakin' ugly they wouldn't need feminism, and anyway the professor looked like a bag lady.

We launch into an extended critique of Mom's flowery dress, at which point Ms. K asks us to shut up or enjoy detention together. Paige just rolls her eyes at me and rubs my leg, and for the second time in two days I wonder if my hard-on will wear off before I have to stand up.

At the end of class, Paige leans in and places a hand on my knee. “Look,” she says. “I understand if you're not interested, but I'd really like to go on a date with you.”

“ … ”

“I said, I'd like to go on a date with you.”

I'm so shocked that I can't actually speak, which makes the conversation somewhat stilted.

Paige waits a few seconds, then shakes her head mournfully. “I understand if you don't find me attractive. I'd just really hoped that maybe you might find me … bearable,” she chokes.

I'm still struggling to locate my vocal cords, but eventually I manage: “I do … find you bearable.”

Bearable?
Did I really just say that?

“Oh, that's such a relief.” She visibly relaxes. “Then let's call it a date for this evening, okay?”

“Uh … sure.” I nod vacantly. “Hold on,
this
evening?”

“Yeah. 'Cause, you know, you might be busy after tonight.”

I don't know why she'd think that, but I'm not dumb enough to blow an opportunity like this. “Okay. Sure.”

“Great. Let's meet at El Pollo Loco at five, okay?”

I'm about to agree, but Paige has already left the room.

Before the Graduation Rituals meeting I make a quick pit
stop
in the boys' bathroom to practice my reluctant-yet-decisive res
ignation speech. I know I told Brandon that I was com
mitted, but I can't take
on Abby, Ms. K,
and
my mom—I'm simply not strong enough. Anyway, the guys will probably be pleased to get rid of me. I run through my spiel one more time, turning my palms up like a martyred saint and furrowing my eyebrows like I'm constipated. Now that I've nailed the right look, I'm ready.

My confidence is short-lived. As I approach the meeting room, I feel my pulse quickening. Doing the right thing is okay in theory, but in practice I'm running the risk of pissing off Brookbank's most volatile group, which seems like an oddly self-destructive course of action. To make matters worse, I notice that everybody else has already arrived. I take a deep breath, but before I've even walked through the door they all rise and applaud me.

“Kev Mopsely, you dog,” barks Brandon. “Hooking up with Paige Tramell already!”

“Well, I haven't technically hooked up with her yet—”

“She's a total babe,” adds Ryan, completely ignoring my interruption. “I mean, she's flat-chested as a ten-year-old boy, but man, that butt. And what about those lips.” Ryan performs the universal jerk-off sign.

“But just remember,” Brandon reminds me, “it's the numbers we're after, not a grade for how good a kisser she is. Got it?”

All eyes are on me, so I nod meekly.

“Oh, and before you leave today,” Brandon says in a suddenly serious voice, “Chase has some numbers for you to add to the Book of Busts. Sounds like he was pretty busy this weekend, taking one for the team. Or was it two or three, Chase?”

I almost wish I didn't understand what he means by that, but as everyone else is laughing, I laugh too. By the time the laughter subsides, I realize that I haven't yet resigned. And I know I can't, either.

Mom is still at work when I get home, so I have to call her to say I'm going out on a date. It makes me feel like I'm thirteen.

“That's great, honey.” Mom's voice explodes across the line. “I've been hoping you two would finally get around to having a date.”

Whoa, that was unexpected. “Who? Me and Paige?”

“Who?”

“Paige Tramell.”

“Who's she?”

“A friend of mine.”

Silence. “Oh, you've never mentioned her before.”

“Yeah, well … she's a, er, friend,” I mumble.

“Yes, I get that.” Another pause. “So what's she like? I mean, how do you know her? Is she a musician?”

“No.”

“Is she a good student?”

“Not especially.”

“Have I ever met her?”

“No.”

“Huh … I know it's none of my business, honey, but exactly why are you going on a date with her?”

How did informing my mom I'd be late home suddenly segue into the third degree about my love life?

“It's just a date, Mom. Okay? That's all. It doesn't mean anything.”

Another silence. “Hmmm. That's a shame.”

“Why?”

“Well, because anytime you really like someone, a date means something,” explains Mom in her I'm-so-patient voice. “It means a whole lot, in fact.”

“Geez. Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“I'm not, honey, I'm not. I mean, sure, go out and have fun. You deserve it.”

I picture her shaking her head disappointedly as she hangs up, then kneeling down and putting a hex on my date with Paige.

As if it needs one.