From Butt to Booty (26 page)

Saint Patrick’s Day starts in a big way with a very informative announcement from Princi-Pal Jenkins.

“The following statement is from our school board and this school’s administrative team. It has come to our attention that Saint Patrick’s Day brings with it several traditions that are illegal and immoral. The tradition of pinching anyone not wearing green will not be tolerated. This constitutes sexual harassment and will not be allowed in the school environs.

“If a student is caught pinching another student or faculty member”—lots of groaning and comments about the idea of touching a teacher like that. Yuck—“the offending student will be disciplined accordingly and the police will be notified of said behavior.

“Signs for the dance that have a leprechaun and say ‘Get Lucky for GAGD’ must be removed from all school walls. They are inappropriate, and any student caught hanging the posters will be disciplined.

“No green Silly String. No confetti. And this year we will not
have the annual special green lunch from our cafeteria’s food team. Thank you. Please have a good learning day.”

Absurd, anyone? I mean, sure, no one likes to have their butt manhandled. That’s why I’m wearing a kelly green shirt today. It hasn’t stopped the pinching, though.

Seriously, I think the only part of that whole announcement that made any sense to us is students who get caught getting punished. The moral—don’t get caught. Lots of pinching fingers will be hidden behind backpacks and books.

A stupid person is so going to report a pinch, though. There’s a pool going to see who will report and if they’ll file charges at the local police station. Can you say “scapegoat”? A freshman geek is so going to be expelled trying to impress the upperclassmen. It’s inevitable.

Other than the fingers, it’s a scurry-and-hide kind of day. Only girls with the best dates, or people totally hooked on each other, are making conversation today. The rest of us are living in fear that someone is going to ask if we’re going to the dance. And then we have to mutter and mumble, or act all singular and proud or, even worse, pull the fire alarm or call in a bomb scare, just so there’s a new topic of conversation.

Here I am in history class with a whole period of library for our rights assignment and I’m spending the whole time avoiding Stevie and Jenny because that’s so vomilicious. I swear Jenny can astrally project herself right into my line of vision.

They can’t keep their hands off each other. They seem to think the tables have an invisibility force field allowing hands to wander and rub ad nauseam without anyone watching. Of course, I’m down on the floor behind the nine-one-something decimals, peering over the tops of books. But still. The nerve.

I’m almost jealous. Almost. And then I reign myself in and remind myself in a loud whisper that he was a terrible kisser.

“Really?” The librarian’s substitute reshelves a book above my head and walks away.

I should have checked my personal space before speaking. Must remember that.

Please make the rest of the day zoom. Please. I don’t ask too much, do I?

Everyone in the world is at the dance but me. I look at the clock and three minutes have ticked by since the last time I stared at it.

To be honest, none of us from the group are there. Tim and Adam have made up a little but are taking a break this weekend. I don’t think it’s a good thing when couples need a break. Doesn’t that just mean they’re trying on being single again? And if you think you want to be single again, even for just a moment, isn’t that a bad sign?

Tangent: sorry.

Maggie has the stomach flu, though I think maybe the idea of going with Jesse was just too much for her. But she says it’s a virus so I’m letting her believe that.

Clarice decided not to ask Spenser since he doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. She’s hoping he’ll have regrets about not going to the dance and want something more with her on Monday. I didn’t point out that I’m fairly certain no straight man has ever felt regret about not going to a high school dance. They’re not exactly
boy-friendly functions, are they? Need I repeat the erection slow dance of last semester?

And I’m here. Alone. Lonely and pathetic. Boring. I hear a parakeet calling my name. On my navy-puke comforter. I decide to sort and throw away the Mount Catalog of college brochures that is the corner of my room. It was the size of a hill; then it became a mountain with a bunny run for skiers; now it’s close to making the Seven Wonders list of natural amazingness. I’m almost overwhelmed by the size of the pile, but hell, I have nothing better to do while the rest of the world is dressed up and dancing and making out.

I have three piles on the floor. The throw-away-because-I’d-rather-waitress-than-attend pile, the maybe-backup tier of places and the consider-applying-here pile. Pretty much, I’m screwed with my current PSAT score. Really screwed.

The statistics are staggering. Every single applicant to the Ivy League was valedictorian last year. Not just the two percent they admitted, but all the applicants.

You know the bottom-of-the-pile person, the person that is worse than everyone else? The person no one wants to be, but someone has to? That person was valedictorian, scored a perfect on the SAT and donated a kidney to an orphan in Zimbabwe. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

If that’s the bottom person, I need to reality-check myself. I think my reality check bounced.

I toss Bryn Mawr, Scripps, University of Texas. Good schools, maybe, but not me. I close my eyes and randomly pick ten to put in the maybe pile, just to make sure I’m not limiting myself because of natural or taught biases.

I pick up an extra-thick booklet. It’s the one Princi-Pal Jenkins gave me after the Brangate controversy. I guess I tossed it out of my bag when I got home and never looked at it again. It feels like the Toys “R” Us wish book. Not that I know how that feels since I haven’t read one since I was … oh, it’s been so long I can’t remember that the Barbie stuff starts on page 42.

Anyway, this wish book has pictures from all over the world, not the toy catalog, this catalog. It’s called the Passport Program for High School Students. It’s a semester long. You visit six to eight countries. The list of cities is impressive. Rome, Oslo, Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong, Amsterdam, London, Cairo, Lima—and those are just the ones I can pronounce without spitting on myself. I’m intrigued. It’s salvation. I can hear angels singing. I must fill out the application. I bet they don’t have school dances. I bet they don’t have Things, Giggles and Oscars in France. Europe is too sophisticated for that stuff.

Because let’s face it: unless I join the cheerleading squad, I’m so going to have another terrible year.

I dump another blue Pixy Stix into my mouth and make that inevitable sour face before flipping the page and reading on. Students are assigned to families or schools for three weeks in each place. You do schoolwork with the help of an online tutor and spend most of your time seeing the sights and meeting the peoples. You do day trips in each country with other Passport students who are there from different schools, so you get to meet people from here, too.

Look at their shiny, happy faces. They’re zitless, their teeth sparkle, even their outfits have the international flair of sophistication.

The catalog headline reads: “Do you seek adventure? Tired of
the same old high school experience? Feel like there must be more to life than school dances and football games? Apply today to broaden your horizons and change your world view.”

You know that movie preview announcer? I feel like he’s in the room reading this to me. All boomy and authoritative. My heart races.

I’ve never really thought about leaving the country. I mean, I’ve joked about it, but could I? Meet people I haven’t known since before I had my adult teeth? People who don’t think the world revolves around our school campus? People who don’t care if our football team has a losing season, or if the track team makes it to state finals? Do such people exist?

I flip through, more than intrigued. Visit Aztec ruins or take a Roman bath. Bungee jump or spelunk. (I’m guessing spelunking is a cave thing since they’re in a cave and smiling—I don’t think it’s a German word for torture or anything). Eat baguettes in Paris, or sip European chocolate in Barcelona.

I pull out the application. I glance at the clock. It’s only 7:46. I have hours to fill and visions of Stephen and Jenny having sex to beat into submission.

I glance around my room. The mountain has been split into two large garbage bags and a small stack of pamphlets to keep. I have too much time to kill. I look at my bookshelves. Nothing jumps up and shouts “Read me!”

My toenails are polished.

I shuffle through the Passport application again. Why not? It’s not like I’ll get the scholarship portion, which is the only way my parents would consider letting me go. You probably have to be a valedictorian to get into this too.

I fill out the first two pages of mostly boring stuff. A couple of
essay questions about why I want to participate. I do my best impression of a Miss America. World peace, feed the children, make a difference, blah blah, woo-hoo. I reread and smile. I sound all Gandhi and Mother Teresa’s love child.

Uh-oh. Must write five pages about myself. You’ve got to be kidding. What is it with everyone wanting to know all about me? It’s weird. And stalkerlike. Creepy, in fact. I wonder if Mr. Slater is a weird pervert who drinks beer in his tighty-whities while reading our essays. No. Bad mental picture. Really bad mental picture.

I debate spending more time on this. I decide to print out five pages from the draft of my Slater assignment. I cut and paste and edit a little and put on the correct title info. Print it out. Sign the application. Forge my mother’s signature. Slide it into the envelope. I don’t have snail mail stamps in my room.

“Mom! You have stamps?” I yell as I go down the stairs.

“Yes, Gertrude. They’re in the desk in the stamp drawer next to the bill box.” She says this like they’ve been there my whole life. Which now that I think about it, they pretty much have.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Oh, just this thing for school. Pen pal thing.”

“That’s nice.” Mom beams at me like I’ve delivered the Messiah and won the lottery. “Just put it in the mail-out basket and I’ll take it first thing.”

“Thanks.” I drop the envelope with its three stamps in the basket and head back up to my room.

“Your father and I are just getting ready to watch a film. Would you like to join us?”

“Does it have subtitles?” I ask.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Won any major awards?” I press.

“I don’t think so.”

The clock reads 9:05. “Okay, why not.”

It’s a homework weekend. Delightful. I’m making a collage of mouths for my history project. I figure the right I appreciate most is freedom of speech, so they’re all mouths in midword or sentence, not just smiles. Smiles are boring when you think about it.

“Gert, what are you doing?” Mom knocks and pokes her head around my door at the same time.

“Knocking usually requires waiting for a response,” I can’t help but point out. See? Freedom of speech.

She only looks at me.

I roll my eyes at her. “I’m working on my Bill of Rights project for history.”

She steps into my room, gingerly avoiding piles of clothes and papers. It just appears messy. I know exactly where everything is. “On what?” she asks.

I shove a pile of old magazines over as she tries to sit next to me on the bed. The good part about having really old parents who don’t throw anything away is the fact that I have, like, fifty years’ worth of
National Geographic
and
Time
to find mouths in.

Mom points to the poster board. “Explain this?” I can tell she’s wondering if it’s one of those signs they talk about on
Dateline
for mental illness issues. She totally thinks I’m goofing off and not really doing an assignment.

“We have to do a visual representation of the right we’d miss most.”

“And yours is?” She leaves this dangling like it’s not completely obvious.