How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (15 page)

Mr. Lucas continues, undaunted. “Perhaps you're not aware of what great promise your son has. Edward stands an excellent chance of getting into Juilliard . . .”

“So what if he does?” Al says. It's disgusting that he'd treat someone as cultured as Mr. Lucas so rudely. He lives in the
city,
for Chrissake! I try to practice telekinesis on the gum in hopes of making it fly down Al's windpipe.

“Juilliard is the finest drama school in the country,” Mr. Lucas says evenly. “Their seal of approval must be worth something.”

“Probably,” Al says, “but is it worth forty grand?”

“I'm not sure you can put a price tag on the value of education.”

“Baloney,” Al snorts, “of course you can. If I thought for a moment that Eddie here actually stood a chance of recouping this investment, I'd let him do it in a minute. But most actors never earn a dime and you wanna know why?” Al doesn't wait for Mr. Lucas to answer, but continues as if his misinformed opinion meant something. “Actors don't understand business and they don't want to, which is why most of 'em are losers. For Chrissakes, I could earn forty grand tomorrow as an actor if I wanted to, not because I know how to act but because I know how to make money. What Eddie needs is some business sense, not four years fartin' around in some drama school. He's dramatic enough as is.”

“But I don't want to major in business!” I shout.

“See what I mean?” Al says.

Mr. Lucas glares hard at me, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “Shut the fuck up, you moron,” then turns back to Al. “Mr. Zanni,” he says, “perhaps there's a middle ground that could give you both what you want. Let's not forget that Edward has an excellent grade point average . . . in honors classes. It's not too late to consider a liberal arts school, even an Ivy League one. Edward would make an excellent English major, for instance.”

“So he could do what
—teach
?” Al spits the word out so contemptuously I know the argument is over before it even starts. Frankly, I'm just as pissed. I don't want to be an English major at a liberal arts school. I want to be an actor. Can't anyone understand that? Whose side is Mr. Lucas on, anyway?

Mr. Lucas takes off his glasses, pulls out a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and starts cleaning his lenses. “The value of a liberal arts education,” he says in his teaching voice, “is not the specific knowledge one learns but that one actually learns to think for oneself. With those skills in place, Edward could excel in whatever field he chooses, be it business or the arts.”

“Is that so?” Al says. “Lemme ask you something, Lucas. How much money did you earn last year?”

“I don't think that's any . . .”

“Never mind, that answers my question. You wanna know how much I earned last year?” Again, he doesn't wait for an answer. “A hundred and twenty grand,” he says.

“That's impressive,” Mr. Lucas murmurs.

“Yeah, I think so, too.” Al rises and takes his keys out of his pocket. “So, with all due respect, why the hell should I listen to you?”

Mr. Lucas meditates on the question briefly; then in the plainest of voices says, “Because, with all due respect, I believe I understand your son better than you do.”

Al looks at Mr. Lucas like he's a disease. “Yeah, I bet you do,” he says.

I
replay the scene in my head
as I drive over to Kelly's, marinating in my hatred of my father and banging my hands on MoM's steering wheel in frustration at Mr. Lucas's failure to broker the deal. Liberal arts college, my ass. What the fuck was he thinking? If I really am capable of getting into Juilliard, the best acting school in the country, then isn't that where I belong? You don't tell a champion javelin thrower to play Pick Up Sticks as some kind of fucking compromise for not going to the Olympics. Stupid goddamn crippled has-been. He's as powerless to help me as he is to walk across a room unassisted.

I'm busy ruminating on the pathetic existence of Ted Lucas when I run a stop sign. The sound of a blaring horn jolts me back to reality and I automatically wave my arms and scream apologies at the guy who has swerved to miss me. He shakes his fist, his face contorted in spasms of rage at the stupid spoiled kid behind the wheel of a Mercedes. I drive very slowly the rest of the way, both hands on the wheel, my breath fogging the windows.

I tap lightly on the front door because I know that today is one of the days Kathleen sees therapy clients (or as we call them, “cryents”) in her office in the basement. On cryent days, you have to take off your shoes and tiptoe lightly around the house. Kelly and I call it the Anne Frank in the Secret Annex game. Kelly answers the door and I must look pretty shaken up because she reaches for me like she's Clara Barton and I'm a soldier wounded in battle. I lean my head on her shoulder and close my eyes and allow myself to be comforted. It feels so good in her arms, like I've docked in a safe harbor, and I grasp her to me tight as she rubs my back with smooth, liquid hands.

A floorboard creaks. I open my eyes and see Doug rising from the couch, his shirt untucked and his hair more cowlick-y than usual. He adjusts his crotch and I wonder whether Kelly's look of concern has more to do with being caught in the act than with thoughts for my well-being. But Doug doesn't seem to register any guilt or embarrassment; in fact he simply radiates this James Taylor-y you-just-call-out-my-name-and-I'll-be-there-yes-I-will kind of vibe as he slides across the hardwood floors in his socks, so maybe I'm imagining things. Silently he embraces both me and Kelly in a three-way hug, his long, muscular arms easily reaching around the two of us. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to lean my head on his shoulder and Kelly beams at the two of us like this is the sweetest display of male affection she's ever seen. The three of us just rock there together, me nuzzling Doug's neck, Doug nuzzling Kelly's, and Kelly nuzzling mine. I grip the two of them tighter to me. I feel so much love for them both right now, my best friend and my girlfriend, and I love the three of us together. Whatever bond the two of them have been developing in my absence only seems to bring us all closer.

I look at Kelly and she smiles at me shyly from under her bangs, the way Princess Diana does, and I just have to lean over and kiss her. She responds by opening her mouth and running her tongue along my teeth, which she knows drives me crazy. I open my eyes and see that Doug is breathing with his mouth open.

Kelly's and my lips part and we just stand there, clinging to one another, giggling very, very quietly. Doug and Kelly give each other a look, then turn, their eyes boring into me, and I know instantly they want my permission to kiss each other. All I can do is nod. Kelly inclines her head the opposite way to receive Doug's kiss and I feel myself stop breathing. Watching the two of them together is possibly the sexiest thing I've ever seen and if there were some way I could be a part of it, I would. Doug opens his eyes, winks, then scratches my ear like I'm some faithful dog needing attention. He gives us both a tug with his strong, hard arms, pulling us backward into the living room and onto the sofa. Kelly laughs and leans back, inviting us to both partake of her. Doug and I each slide a hand under her shirt, moving up her taut, flat belly to grasp a muffin-y breast in each palm.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I whisper.

Doug reaches around to undo her bra and we both lean over to suck on her nipples, as hard and as tiny as the heads of pins. Arms get tangled as we try to unzip her jeans while she simultaneously tries to free us both of our pants and we all laugh some more. Doug doesn't bother waiting for any help and just stands up to pull his jeans and underwear to his knees.

You know those 1950s sci-fi movies where a nuclear reaction causes vegetables to grow to the size of crosstown buses? That's what Doug's erection is like. Kelly glances down and, I swear, does a double take, then grabs it firmly in her hand, like she better hold tight because there's no telling what this thing will do left to its own devices. She regards us both, like she's a housewife in the produce aisle trying to decide which zucchini to buy. Even hard, mine doesn't compare favorably; Doug's could easily feed a family of four, while I'm more of a snack by comparison. Damn Al and his lousy genetics. Yet another reason to hate him.

“Oh my God,” Kelly says.

This is not exactly the warm, supportive affirmation I'm looking for, though I can't say I blame her. I prefer Doug's cock to mine, too. Still, it seems a rude thing to say, particularly since I kind of feel like this little ménage à trois is for my benefit.

“My mother!” she hisses.

For a fleeting Freudian second I try to figure out why two teenage boys' penises would make a girl think of her mother, but then I hear Kathleen climbing up the basement steps and I realize she'll be in the room in a matter of seconds. Each of us sets new Olympic records in speed dressing, then leaps to a different place on the large sectional sofa, grabbing the first thing we can so as to appear as if we were engaged in something, anything, other than group sex.

Kathleen rounds the corner looking tired and we all feign surprise at seeing her—y'know, “Oh, hiiiiyeee!”

“How did it go?” Kelly chirps, a little too enthusiastically. She folds her arms across her chest so her mother doesn't notice that she's not wearing a bra, which, at this moment, is stuffed between the cushions of the couch.

“Oh, these poor people,” Kathleen says, leaning on the archway. “So much pain, so much pain.” She heaves a sigh. “I need a drink.”

She crosses through the living room then stops to look at me. “Since when have you taken up knitting, Edward?” she asks.

“It helps soothe the nerves,” I say.

Kelly, Doug, and I don't talk
about what happened, but there's an unspoken awareness now that we are some kind of threesome. Doug and I buy flowers for Kelly's opening in
The Miracle Worker
(well, actually, he steals them while I distract the clerk—part of my revenge on Petals Plus for firing me), and the two of us fawn all over her like she's Scarlett O'Hara and we're the Tarleton twins. I have to say I kind of like this two-buddies-vying-for-the-same-girl thing that we're playing out, so long as I'm the one who gets the girl in the end. Using Kelly as the bait to lure Doug's big fish is not something I'm necessarily proud of, but you work with what you've got.

Thanksgiving approaches and with it the annual homecoming game, which is supposed to be this big hairy deal because it's against our “arch rival,” Battle Brook High. In anticipation of said event, we're all subjected to attending the school spirit assembly.

I fucking hate school spirit.

For some unfathomable reason, the Show Choir is required to perform. Show Choir is neither show nor choir and, as a result, I kind of hate it, too, particularly since Miss Tinker insists we perform our “Mary” medley, despite the fact it has absolutely nothing to do with school spirit. We begin with an a cappella arrangement of “Mary's a Grand Old Name,” sung in six-part harmony, followed by the girls performing “How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria?” from
The Sound of Music,
sung in counterpoint to the boys doing “Maria” from
West Side Story,
which has the unfortunate effect of sounding like we just kissed a nun with a problem. We then make an utterly embarrassing segue into “Proud Mary,” complete with watered-down Tina Turner–like choreography as interpreted by the rhythm impaired. We look about as hip as the Lawrence Welk singers. The audience doesn't even try to hide its disdain and they laugh all the way through our stirring rendition of the Schubert “Ave Maria.”

High-school audiences are the worst.

Like Natie, Miss Tinker seems impervious to any humiliation and bravely chipmunks a toothy grin at us, exhorting us to “Smile! Smile!” despite the fact that we're in imminent danger of having something thrown at us. The woman is either highly deluded or highly medicated. Afterward, the Show Choir crawls back to its seats in the front row, no doubt wondering if there's any way we can get plastic surgery to render ourselves unrecognizable for the duration of the school year.

Principal Farley, the Dork of the Universe, takes the stage. “All right, settle down people, settle down,” he says, and then adds insult to injury by insisting that the audience give us another round of applause. There are no boos this time, just the dispiriting drizzle of tepid clapping. I grab Kelly's hand and scooch down lower in my seat.

“Now we have something really special for you that I'm sure you'll find very enjoyable. Bringing the break-dancing craze to WHS for the first time . . .” (he pronounces “break dancing” like it's a foreign word he doesn't want to screw up) “. . . here are the Four Masters!”

The curtain opens to reveal about two dozen black guys. The audience roars, all coming to the same horrible, simultaneous conclusion: these guys can't count. It's a thoroughly chilling moment, far worse than anything the Show Choir had to endure. I see TeeJay, now decked out in a shiny warm-up jacket and pants, rush to the front of the stage and shout “That's the
Floor
Masters!” but he can hardly be heard over the laughter and the music.