From Butt to Booty (8 page)

“Well, yeah.” She drinks the end of her green tea juice thingy.

The drawbacks are obvious to me. Running, and oh yeah, running.

“Maggie said she’d do it, if you did it.” Clarice puts on her best diplomat face. “I’m not saying this because I think it will influence your decision, but in the interest of full disclosure, you should know Lucas is the assistant coach.”

“Oh.” I’m dating Stephen. I repeat that out loud. “I’m dating Stephen.”

“Right. Which is why I’m sure that bit of information will have no bearing on your decision at all whatsoever. I just didn’t want you to think I’m keeping secrets or anything.” Her eyes twinkle maniacally.

“About the soccer team?” Why would I think she’s keeping secrets about the soccer team?

“I believe in honesty.” She’s so full of shit. She knows damn well I can’t resist the idea of hot and sweaty Lucas. Even running sounds appealing.

Of course, the odds that I’ll be able to stay beautiful and not
really run around getting nasty are slim, but I’ll think of something. Maybe I can have bad ankles and turn them often. “Ouch.” I practice.

“Are you okay?” Clarice looks at me like I’ve ruptured my appendix.

“Fine.” Yes, this could work. “I’m in. As long as Princi-Pal doesn’t expel me.” After he talks to Ms. Whoptommy I may be packing for Bolivia.

“The freshmen are all talking about how amazingly brave you were saying that out loud.”

How do the freshmen know? “Great. I’m infamous. Just think how much they’ll talk when I’m no longer a student at this school.” I might even make the local news.

“You are not going to get expelled. Danny brought meth to school and sold it, and all he had to do was pick up trash after school for a week.” She waves her hands like that’s the epitome of punishment.

She may have a point. “Oh.” Maybe it’s not that dire. Meth does not equal oat bran. I don’t think. Does it? Maybe for the bowel-impaired it does.

“Don’t worry. Just give him the whole having-PMS thing, and mention you’re thinking about going out for soccer to be part of the school spirit. They’re afraid none of us will try out.”

My face lights up. Okay, now I really do care. Sweaty, sexy Lucas and getting out of Brangate. I like. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Her expression has “gotcha” all over it.

I sigh. I hate running. “Give me the details tonight.”

“Sure.” She bites into a rather nasty-looking peach and spits out the bite.

I so could have told her peaches aren’t in season. But then it
occurs to me I don’t know why she wants to play soccer. “Clarice, why do you want to do this?”

“I don’t know. It feels important.” She actually looks serious.

I guess I can live with that, at least until I can drag the real reason out of her. “Do you know anything about soccer?”

“Not a thing. Other than all the exchange students are mad about it. And Lucas, of course.” She shakes her head and bats her eyelashes in an effective manner.

“Of course.” I slug her shoulder.

“I’ve got a couple of DVDs with Mia Hamm on them. We’ll watch them.”

Somehow, I’m fairly certain watching the soccer will lead to playing the soccer. Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Shin-Guards-and-Grass-Stains, what have I gotten myself into?

“Ms. Garibaldi, I have to say I’m surprised to see you in my office.” Princi-Pal Jenkins leans back in his throne, trying to be all pally and stuff.

I’ve been in his office many times to pick up the Brain quarterly awards. He’s conveniently forgetting all those times. “Me too.” Seems safest to agree with him and feed the delusions.

“I have spoken with Ms. Whoptommy and she’s given me her side of the story.” He throws his hands in the air. “I know, hey, there are always two sides to a pancake. I mean, hey, I’m cool.” He stands up and moves closer to me.

What in Holy-Mother’s-Name-of-the-Elderly is he talking about? He wants something from me. Is this when kids start
crying? Cuz I could try that. I pinch my outer thigh really hard to work up some wet.

“Gert.” He leans on his desk all casual-chummy. “Tell me your side of the pancake.”

“Oh.” I really don’t think Ms. Whoptommy got it wrong. I mean, there are only so many ways to say it. “Here’s the deal. I really didn’t mean to say it out loud. Really, I’m shocked it came out at all, because I respect Ms. Whoptommy.” I’m trying to get my cues from his facial expression. Can’t beat them, join them in the delusion. “I—really, so, I have really bad PMS.” I can’t believe I just said that. Who uses PMS as an excuse anymore? I feel dirty.

His eyes glaze over. He’s wearing his discomfort like a new tie—all choked up and turning red. What is it about men not getting the bleeding thing? It’s not like we have a choice.

I continue. “I just really don’t know how that happened and I assure you it won’t happen again, because I will wear duct tape over my mouth once a month to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” I frantically blink, hoping to give the appearance of tears. I wonder if I can poke myself with the pencil without his noticing. That would make me cry.

Can you believe this drivel I’m making up? Who knew I’m this quick on my feet? I should maybe think about a career where I’m all off-the-cuff all the time. I’m good at it. Passing this authoritative moment with surfing colors.

He pats me on the shoulder. “That won’t be necessary. We don’t like students to hurt themselves as part of self-expression, or in this case, self-unexpression. It’s against board policy. So please, don’t use the duct tape, I’d hate to see you back here.”

“Okay, no tape. But I will be supercareful about what comes out of my mouth.”
Super?
I used the word “super.”

He nods, all serious. “There is the need to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation. Now, I think you did have a point and I really appreciate you being so candid and taking responsibility for your actions. That ranks highly for me.”

Goody. I nod, try to smile.

He doesn’t seem to notice. “I want to talk with you anyway about a high school exchange program we submit student applications to each year.” He picks a thick packet off his desk. “I’m sure a girl like you is very interested in the world around her.”

He’s waiting for a response. “Of course.” I nod vigorously.

“Good. Some years the competition is very stiff, and rarely do we have multiple teachers suggest the same sophomore, but this year your name came up several times.”

“Really?” I fail to see how I popped out at people when the words “international” and “travel” were batted around.

“It’s a confidentiality issue that I can’t tell you exactly which of your teachers think this would be an exceptional opportunity for you.”

Why the hell not?

“So if it’s all right with you, I’ll have the school’s guidance office work on the paperwork from our end, and all you need to do is fill out these forms and essay and submit them by the deadline.”

He hands the packet to me. I open my backpack and shove it in as politely and nicely as I can. I sense he has more to say that I may not like to hear. “Okay. I will fill it out and send it in. Sure.” What are the odds, really?

“Good. Good. Also, here’s the information on soccer tryouts.
I think this might also be a very good venue for your creative and unique approach to the world.”

I think he just called me a freak. Ah, one of the grown-up crossroads. He is offering me an olive branch of compromise. I pretend interest in soccer and he pretends he influenced my life in a healthy direction. “My friends and I were just discussing the try-outs.” I try to look all perky.

“Really?” He’s pleased.

Like I’d lie about that? Of course I would, but I don’t have to, thanks to Clarice.

“Really.”

“Well then, I’ll expect to see you at tryouts and we’ll just consider this conversation concluded.” He pats my shoulder.

“Great.” I try to sound all TV Land.

He scribbles on a pass. “Here’s a tardy slip. Better get to class.”

I practice my inflection. “Great.”

“I’m glad we had this talk.” He actually looks glad. Odd. Silly, silly man.

Slater. Aka Mr. Butt-Twitcher. “Nice of you to join us, Garibaldi.”

I slink into a desk near the front. No one likes sitting in the front of this class. We’re all afraid the twitching could be a contagious African disease he picked up in the Peace Corps.

“Richards, explain to the class what we’ve been discussing.”

Andrew sits taller in his desk. “Our term project, sir.”

“Sir”?
Suck-up
.

“Which is what?” Slater slaps the eraser against the board.

“A twenty-five-page paper about us.” Drew is going to slip a disk sitting that tall. No one has posture like that.

“Specifically about?” Slater doesn’t bother to turn around.

“Who we are specifically in the world around us, and who we are in comparison to a historical figure at our age.” Now Drew doesn’t sound so sure. Slater isn’t throwing him any cookies.

“Such as?”

“Christ, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln?”

“Any women on that list?”

Andrew swallows and looks down. “Helen Keller, Queen Victoria, Cleopatra?”

Slater taps the board with chalk. “Yours is called?”

“ ‘Who Is Drew Richards Compared to Christ?’ ” There’s a distinct question at the end of that.

We all twitter. It can’t be helped. Drew as Christ is such a miscast.

“And in this paper you will answer that question in twenty-five double-spaced pages. Your historical data will be accurate. Your comparisons will be inspired, illuminating and thought-provoking. You may use quotations from literature or popular music. Anything is game if it illuminates your character. However, you may not use more than fifty words from any one work or source. I will count, so don’t test me, people.”

This is the assignment that gets whispered to eighth graders when they tour for orientation and registration, the one seniors use to terrify the little squirts. It’s the world’s hardest paper to get a passing grade on. Mr. Slater loves failing people because they were inane and uninspired. Basically, he uses this paper to tell each kid they suck and will never amount to anything important.

We’ve all heard stories about flunking out because people didn’t know themselves well enough to prove they existed in Slater’s mind. He’s brutal. Supposedly Jenny Oppenheimer drove off a bridge after turning in a blank piece of paper. That was in the nineties, way before our time. But instead of being convinced the assignment was a bad thing, Slater took her death as validation he was pushing us in the right direction.

Tangent: sorry.

Who is Gert Garibaldi?

I wish I knew.

The parentals are out at a charity thing, so I light a bunch of candles and turn out the harsh overhead fixture. Everyone looks better by candlelight, right? Even my fuzzy pink lamp isn’t soft enough light. I strip down to nothing. Just me. Naked me. I open my eyes and stare at the reflection.

Where did I go?

I wasn’t too tall or too short, fairly straight no matter what angle I looked at. No disfiguring humps or scars or fins. What happened?

I’m still average height. Not so straight. When did my thighs get pudgy? Last week?