“Send it a letter,” says Shane, laughing even though it doesn't make sense.
Adrian laughs too. “Dear Shane's gherkin,” he says, also in a girly voice. “You're so fascinating, I can't take my eyes off you. Want to go for pizza after school? Yours sincerely, Bradley Parker.”
“Dear Bradley Parker,” answers Shane, in a deep masculine voice. “I belong to Jazmin LeMaitre, and believe me, she treats me good. I'm busy every day after school. And I do mean busy.”
“Dear Shane's gherkin, Come on, one little date. I've been admiring you from afar!” Adrian laughs.
“Dear Bradley Parker,” says Shane. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
I cannot believe Shane is not only talking in the voice of his gherkin but having it discuss how good Jazmin treats it. Also acting like Brat is madly in love with it.
There's not even much to be in love with. By now, I should qualify as a gherkin expert, and his equipment isn't anything special. I mean, in a purely observational capacity, I've seen nearly a hundred gherkins every day for the past three days and I can attest that Shane's gherkin is a certifiably ordinary gherkin and he shouldn't be so cocky about it.
There is no big reason for Brat to be staring.
If you get what I mean.
It's funny. A week ago, it would have killed me to hear Shane talking about messing around with Jazmin. Even yesterday, it freaked me out when I saw them together in the hall, and I used to hate having to sit in the same room with her during math and art history. She was so slick, and so unaware of me, and yet I'd sit there looking at her like she was my replacement,
because Shane thought she was better than me,
and so that meant she probably was better than me,
and I'd wonder—what's the secret of her sex appeal? Is it the way she licks her lips, or the size of her biscuits?
And I'd think about them fooling around—
not because I wanted to, but because those stupid thoughts would jump into my head—
and picture them hot on Shane's couch with the lights all dim—
and I'd feel sick to my stomach and full of jealousy and obsession and rejection.
But now, when his gherkin is talking about how good Jazmin treats it, and I know for sure he's going all the way with her or at least doing oral, all I think is,
I'm glad it isn't me he's bragging about in the locker room.
Brat looks shocked when Shane says “Leave me the fuck alone”—and it really is unfair for Shane to get mean about it, since at this point it's Adrian who's putting all the focus on Shane's gherkin, anyway.
Brat grabs his jacket from his locker and runs out of the room. The sound of the swinging door echoes against the tiles.
“You didn't have to be such assholes just now.” It's Malachy.
“What?” says Adrian. “We were kidding around.”
“Brat's tough, he can take it,” agrees Shane. “Besides, those eyeballs of his are always wandering.”
“Who cares about his eyeballs?” says Malachy. “You don't have to pick on him.”
“It was a joke,” says Adrian. “He's gotta learn to take a joke.”
“C'mon, Malachy. It was funny. Dear Shane's gherkin.” Shane chuckles again as he pulls on his jeans.
“Brat didn't think so. I'm gonna catch him up. Later.”
And Malachy is gone.
Shane and Titus and Adrian finish getting dressed.
Titus doesn't say anything at all. When he leaves, saying he's got homework and can't hang out after school, Adrian and Shane stand in front of the sinks for a minute, messing with their hair.
“He's freakin' out,” says Adrian.
“Who, Titus?”
“Um-hm. About the sports thing next year.”
“Well, he should freak. I love the guy, but he objectively sucks. It's like he's the most uncoordinated man on the planet.”
“I know. Poor wuss.”
“He's gonna end up like Gunther and those other geeks who have to take gym four days a week.”
“You think?”
“That's what they do if you can't even qualify for JV bench. They make you take double gym.”
“That sucks. Sanchez is such an ass.”
“Titus should try swimming.”
“Nah, he'll never make it. He barely floats.”
“Did you see the poor guy cowering when Taffy came at him with the hockey stick?”
“She took that puck like taking candy from a baby.”
Shane grins. “There's only one way out for him, then.”
“What?” asks Adrian.
“African dance.”
Wednesday night. In the deep darkness. From all the way across the room, I can hear the spider spinning new threads in her web.
The clock ticks.
A sink is leaking occasional drops of water onto the floor. One of the toilets runs funny.
There is no other sound.
The night is endless. I feel like I've been a fly forever.
I've got to turn back sometime. Somehow.
But how? And when? What if my fly body dies of old age before whatever powers made this happen reverse the spell?
Oh hell oh hell oh hell oh hell
Get me
out
of
here.
Someone.
Please.
thursday morning, I am grateful to be distracted by a new crop of seniors. Hugh is Monday/Tuesday gym. These guys are Thurs-day/Friday. I feel like it's Hanukkah—the new day brings new presents to unwrap.
Two guys come in early and steal a kiss inside a toilet stall, still wearing all their clothes. Then they head to different sides of the locker room and change for gym like nothing happened.
Like they're straight.
More filter in, and they change slowly, sluggishly. A couple of them wear their gym shorts to school and carry their jeans in their backpacks. Lots of them have coffee cups or soda cans, and when they go into class they leave them sitting on the sinks and benches, as if they'll only be gone for a minute.
I do like looking at them.
I do, I do.
Have I become a bad person, then?
I know I'd think badly of a guy for going to strip clubs or reading pervy magazines or spying on girls in the locker room. I'd think he was objectifying women or violating people's privacy.
But I'm doing it myself—the spying part—and I fully enjoy it.
And would it still be wrong if the guys knew about it and agreed to it—like if they were models or in a video?
Could I really be the type of girl who would buy a dirty video?
I don't know. I'm so full of hormones, anything seems possible.
I used to think beauty was something you could put your finger on. Of course, I knew it changed according to fashion—like long ago people used to prefer weak chins and rosebud mouths on women, whereas now we like strong jaws and wide grins; or good-looking men used to have big fuzzy sideburns that grew all the way down across their cheeks, and now that kind of facial hair looks mangy.
I know the svelte women we admire these days would have been considered scrawny things with no figures in previous centuries. But even so, I still thought: the good-looking people are the good-looking people. They are the ones people want to date, because good looks are what make people attractive. If a person has flaws, his rating goes down. Attractive is attractive is attractive.
And it turns out that's not so. Like what about Hugh? I think he's sexier now than I did when I'd only seen him with his clothes on—even though his clothes hide his bad skin and objectively there are problems with his body. He's sexy naked because he walks around in his argyle socks, drinking coffee. He's comfortable in himself.
Shane, on the other hand, looks great and has a gorgeous chest, but somehow seems hard and untouchable—like you're not really looking at him, but at a coat of armor he wears to keep people away. And Carlo looks better undressed than dressed, because his clothes are
geeky. But his relatively nice body still doesn't do anything for me. He's got no milkshake—or whatever the equivalent is in boys.
Girls' magazines are always saying “confidence is the sexiest thing of all”—but even though that's kind of true for Hugh, Titus is the opposite. It's not his confidence that makes him sexy. He hasn't got any.
When he's got his clothes off, he seems even more naked than anyone else.
At the end of African dance, Xavier and Carlo don't come in right away. The drumbeats have stopped, but they're staying inside the gym for some reason.
Gunther arrives—first in his class as usual. He must have his third period in the sculpture studio right next door. He opens his minilocker and gets his sneakers, then sits down on a bench and starts to change.
I hear the voice of the drummer before I see him. He has a lilt—not African but Jamaican. He plays the bongos for the dance class, and he must arrive at the gym through the teachers' offices, because I've never seen him before. When he enters, Xavier and Carlo trailing behind him, I can see he's short, with shiny dark skin and dreads. Not dressed like a teacher—tan cords and a faded blue T-shirt. He's sweating a bit from playing the drums for so long.
“Is that the guy?” he asks Xavier.
Xavier nods. They must have told the teacher what's been going on with Gunther. And she sent the drummer in, to take care of stuff in the boys' locker room.
“Excuse me,” says the drummer, standing over Gunther. “I wonder if I can talk to you for a second. My men here are having a problem and they asked me to step in and negotiate.”
Gunther looks up. He's bigger than the drummer, but he's sitting down. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I'm hearing things about being pushed into lockers and threats and whatnot. Do you want to tell me what's been going on?”
“What did they say?”
“Look, no one wants any trouble. You want to give your side of the story?”
Gunther pulls on his sweatshirt. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm minding my own crap.”
“You haven't been intimidating my friends here? Because that's what I'm hearing. And that kind of thing can't be happening.”
“I don't even know those guys. I got nothing to say.”
“Oh,” says the drummer, sounding innocent and sarcastic at the same time. “I'm very happy to hear that. Because I would hate to hear someone had been harassing my guys. If I heard any rumors like that again, I'd have to go talking to Mr. Sanchez about it, whereas right now we're keeping it between friends.”
“You're barking up the wrong tree,” says Gunther.
“I'm sure I am. A big man like you would never pick on someone who wasn't his own size. Let's chalk it up to nothing and say I'm happy to meet you.” He smiles and extends his hand. “My name is David Mowatt. And you are?”
Gunther shakes, warily. “Gunther.”
“Gunther what? So I can remember you next time I see you.”
“Hocking-Delancy.”
Mowatt lets go of his hand. “Nice to meet you, Gunther Hocking-Delancy. I hope we understand each other.”
“Yeah, we understand each other,” mutters Gunther.
“Good.”
As if released from a spell, Xavier and Carlo scoot out from behind Mowatt and bang their lockers open. They grab their stuff, wave their thanks and run out into the hall.
Sophomore lunch, fifth period. The Thursday/Friday juniors and seniors who have gym now have already taken their hot, hairy bodies out for hockey, and the room is quiet. Usually, no one comes in while class is going on except an occasional guy on a hall pass who has to use the toilet, or the janitor to empty the towel bin; but today, I hear laughing from down the hall, and footsteps running, and Malachy comes barging through the door.
He stands still for a minute, looking around to make sure he's alone. Then he peeks under the bathroom stalls for people's feet, and quickly scouts behind the lockers for any lurking seniors. He pulls open the door to the hallway again and beckons someone in.
It's Katya.
Her hair is flowing down her back like she just brushed it, and she's wearing lip gloss. Malachy grabs her hand—they're both giggling—and starts kissing her.
Malachy is kissing Katya.
And it's clear they've done this before. Probably lots of times. His hands go right for her biscuits, and before long, her left hand is rubbing the front of his jeans.
Katya and Malachy.
Malachy and Katya.
I never even suspected, though I should have figured she had someone. She's been so evasive.
Duh: where has she been on weekend nights?
With Malachy.
Why can't I ever reach her on the phone?
She's with Malachy.
Why is she smoking cigarettes and eating lunch out back with the Art Rats, instead of with me?
To be with Malachy.
Why hasn't she had me over in ages, why is she always too busy?
She's been with Malachy.
But why didn't she tell me? I mean, we're best friends— aren't we?
After a few minutes, which I spend mainly buzzing around the ceiling trying not to watch this make-out session that is none of my business, Katya pushes Malachy away. “I'm thirsty,” she says. “Just a second.”
She heads over to the water fountain and drinks. He comes around and hugs her from behind. “Want to come to the end-of-April sculpture exhibit thing with me?”
“Hm.” She stands up and walks over to the sinks, pulling her hair into a ponytail while she looks in the mirror. “It's probably not a good idea.”
“Why not? People have gotta find out sometime.”
“It's Gretchen,” says Katya. “She'll be weird about it. She's so judgmental.”
“You said that before. But who cares what Gretchen thinks?”
“I do.”
“What, she doesn't like me?”
Katya hesitates. I think about all the times I've said Malachy was nothing much, that he never says anything and thinks having his ears pierced makes him slick. “No, she likes you all right,” Katya lies. “But she doesn't know you. And she's all hung up about men. Like you guys are aliens or animals or something.”
“We are animals,” says Malachy, nuzzling her neck.
“I just feel like she'll be all mean about me having…” She pauses.
“A boyfriend,” supplies Malachy. “I'm your boyfriend, right? So say it.”
“Boyfriend,” says Katya. “But she'll be mean about it, like I'm a traitor. And she'll say something dismissive.”
“So?”
“So I'll know what she says is wrong, but I'll care what she thinks anyway—and then everything will have a taint on it.”
“Katya, you worry too much. Just come with me now and walk down the hall and hold my hand.”
Katya shakes her head.
“What's gonna happen?” Malachy asks. “Gretchen's not even in school.”
“She'll hear about it anyway. She'll be mad I didn't tell her.”
“So tell her, then.”
“Not yet. I can't. She's still obsessed over what happened with Shane, and the two of you guys are friends, and…I just think she'll freak out. Trust me on this, okay?”
Malachy moves over to the window and stares at the frosted glass, right underneath where I'm perched. “You care more about what she thinks than you do about me.”
“That's not it. Come on.”
“I'm sick of sneaking around.”
“Gretchen's been my best friend for two years. Don't ask me this.”
“I am asking you,” he says. “I am asking you this.”
There's a rustle outside the door to the gymnasium. The juniors and seniors are heading back in to change their clothes. “I gotta go,” says Katya, peeking out the door that goes to the hall, making sure no one will see her leave. “I'll call you later.”
“Call me with an answer,” Malachy shouts as she runs out.
&
nbsp; Then he sits there,
like a statue,
while the older boys slap each other with towels and complain.
the Art Rats have finished showering after gym. Shane and Titus are talking about getting pizza. Malachy's eating a chocolate bar. Adrian is jumping on and off one of the benches for no apparent reason.
And I am thinking that the hierarchy they had at the start of the school year—with Titus at the top, then Malachy, then Adrian, Brat and Shane (the new guy)—has shifted now.
Today Shane, with his good looks and sports skills and hot girlfriend, is on top. And Brat's pushed to the bottom, even farther down than Shane ever was—because Shane doesn't like him. Then Malachy is one up from Brat.
Adrian, because he can keep up with Shane and since he's the “booty master,” has got the number two slot. Which puts Titus in the middle at number three.
I wonder what he thinks of the shake-up.
friday morning, at the end of third period, Gunther is waiting for Xavier and Carlo to come in after African dance. The bell hasn't rung yet; he must have cut out of sculpture early to be here. He's standing right by the gymnasium door, and as soon as Carlo enters, Gunther grabs him by the elbow and slams him against the wall. “You rat on me and you think that's gonna save you?” he grunts. “Some Mary Poppins teacher telling me to keep the peace?”
Xavier comes in, sweat glistening on his chocolate forehead, and sees Gunther all over Carlo. “Hey, what the—?”
Gunther's elbow is fast. He jabs it backward into Xavier's stomach, knocking him into the towel bin, which rolls across the floor. Xavier stumbles, but keeps his balance. “Why don't you leave us alone?”
Gunther doesn't say anything. He simply punches Carlo in the face, and as Carlo crumples to the floor in the corner by the door, he turns around to face Xavier. Blood is trickling from Carlo's mouth.
Xavier backs up, clearly frightened, and Gunther walks toward him menacingly. “You faggy little twerp,” he says.
Xavier's right fist is clenched, like he's trying to get up the nerve to hit Gunther, but Gunther's not hesitating. He grabs Xavier's T-shirt in one hand, yanks him forward and hits his nose with an open palm. There's a crack, like Xavier's nose is breaking, and he collapses backward into a locker.