Getting It (8 page)

Carlos pondered that for a sec, but as their bus neared school, his thoughts returned to his new clothes and Roxy. Would she notice him now?

He looked for her after second period but she was nowhere in sight. At lunch, when he finally spotted her, she was busy with her friends. So, he decided that, after last bell, he'd casually stroll past her locker.

When the time came, she was talking with her group again, diminishing the chance that she'd notice him. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and walked in her direction. His legs felt like Jell-O beneath him. Without his hoodie, he felt so naked that he almost hoped she
wouldn't
notice him. But just as he walked past, somehow, miraculously, she glanced toward him.

From across the hall, her dazzling green eyes scanned down his clothes. And beneath Carlos's new shirt and jacket, his heart leaped in his chest.

He opened his mouth, wanting desperately to speak. But he'd been so certain she wouldn't even see him that he hadn't prepared anything to say. The most he could manage was to raise his hand and give a dorky little wave.

And yet, to his amazement, as Roxy's gaze reached his sexy belt buckle, a foxy little smile crinkled at the corners of her mouth. Her gaze ascended to his eyes. Then she raised her hand and waved back.

Granted, it was only for an instant before she returned to her friends. But that didn't matter. She had noticed him.

Carlos nearly danced down the hall as he headed toward his bus.

A
S SOON AS
Carlos got home, he phoned Sal. “You won't believe it: Dude, she waved to me!”

“Awesome!” Sal cheered as Carlos told him all about it.

When Carlos finally calmed down enough to stop talking, Sal announced, “Hey, I've got news for you, too. I got us an appointment with Harris to discuss the GSA.”

Still lingering in his Roxy haze, it took Carlos a moment to recall who Harris was: Lone Star High's principal.

“We're meeting with him,” Sal continued, “after school tomorrow. Okay?”

In truth, Carlos had been so focused on the makeover part of their deal that he'd put any thought of the GSA out of his mind.

“Um, so you want me to go too?” he now asked.

“Duh!” Sal's voice sounded irritated. “Of course! I need you to talk—as the straight guy in the group—about how homophobia hurts everybody.”

Carlos pondered that. “But I don't know what to say.”

“Sure you do! You get called ‘faggot' too, don't you?”

“Yeah. Everyone does sometimes.”

“Exactly! And do you like being called ‘homo' or
‘maricón'?”

“No.”

“Then why don't you do something about it?”

“Because it's like being called
‘pendejo'—
it doesn't really mean anything.”

“Oh, yeah? If it's the same as being called
‘pendejo,'
then why are you scared to be seen with me? Why are you so afraid people might think you're gay?”

Carlos bit into his lip, unsure how to respond.

Sal continued. “Homophobia means that, any time you say or do anything the least bit different, you risk getting called queer—whether you are or not. You think that doesn't hurt you? You think that doesn't keep you from being an individual?”

Carlos's brain was starting to ache. “I guess so.”

“All right, then,” Sal said triumphantly. “That's what I want you to talk about tomorrow. I'm counting on you, okay?”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “Yeah, okay.”

“Don't sound so enthusiastic,” Sal said sarcastically.

In fact, Carlos wasn't enthusiastic. After hanging up, he laid down in bed, his head throbbing from the conversation. In addition, he now had a new worry: Would Principal Harris think he was gay?

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY,
Carlos didn't tell his friends about his after-school GSA commitment. When the final bell rang, he bolted to the main office and slinked inside, wishing he still had his sweatshirt. In its place, he pulled the collar of his jean jacket up and watched the steady stream of staff and students hustle in and out the main door.

A girl wearing an orange hoodie wandered in, scanning the room as if expecting someone. Beneath her hood, she looked vaguely familiar and cute—not Roxy gorgeous, but definitely cute—with a sprinkle of freckles and soft hazel eyes. Carlos averted his gaze while trying to recollect where he'd seen her. When he glanced shyly up at her, a little smile squiggled onto her face, bright as sunshine. Carlos felt his cheeks flame. Instantly, he recalled her from the library, with Sal and—

Carlotta, Pulga's ceiling-tall benefit-friend, strode into the reception room. Carlos sank farther into his seat. Was she also helping to start the GSA? Carlos hadn't counted on that. No doubt she'd blab to Pulga she'd seen Carlos, and he'd get even more crap from his buds.

“Hi, Espie!” Carlotta waved at Hoodie Girl. “Are we the first ones here? Oh, hi, Carlos!”

Just then, Freaky Vicky traipsed through the door, dressed weird as ever: camouflage pants, military dog tags, combat boots, and a T-shirt that read:
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.

“Hey, gang!” Sal followed behind her. “Has anyone seen …” He spotted Carlos. “Oh, there you are. I'll let them know we're all here.”

He spoke to the secretary behind the counter and signaled the group. “Come on, troops!”

Inside his office, the principal sat behind his huge metal desk like it was some sort of battle tank, armored with papers. “Hard-Ass Harris,” as students called him, was an ex-Army captain with a flattop haircut and a voice that boomed cannonlike through the halls, ordering students to class.

“Take a seat,” he now commanded Carlos's group, but there were only four chairs facing his desk.

Carlos seized the opportunity to hang back, hoping to blend into the wall.

But Sal glanced over his shoulder at him. “Come sit up here. I'll stand.”

“I'm fine back here,” Carlos assured him, and plopped onto the vinyl couch.

Sal shot him a peeved look as Mr. Harris braced his hands on top of his desk. “So what's this all about?”

Sal turned to face him. “We want to start a Gay-Straight Alliance.”

Mr. Harris's brow furrowed into trenches. “You mean a club for
homosexuals?”
He pronounced the word as if speaking a foreign language.

“No …” Sal's voice resonated with irritation. “I mean a club where
all
students can talk about homophobia and get support.”

Carlotta spoke out in agreement. “I'm not gay, but I have friends who are. And I know what it's like to be made fun of.”

Vicky followed. “It's hard to feel safe in school when people constantly call you names like ‘lesbo' and ‘dyke.'”

“Some students,” Espie added more softly, “have gay relatives and no place that feels safe to talk about it.”

“That's all well and good.” Mr. Harris moved a stack of papers from the right flank of his desk to the left. “But I can't allow a club that condones immorality.”

“Immorality?”
Sal rose up in his seat. “What's immoral is letting people get harassed and not doing anything to stop it.” He jabbed his finger like a bayonet toward Mr. Harris.
“That's
immoral!”

Carlos watched from the rear, sitting up with interest. He'd come into the meeting secretly kind of hoping the group's application would be denied so that he could avoid getting involved altogether, but now he almost hoped they'd win.

Mr. Harris glowered at Sal. “You're out of line, son.”

“Mr. Harris?” Carlotta interceded. “I think what Sal is trying to say is, this group will help protect people.”

“All day long,” Vicky added, “you walk down the hall and hear people say, ‘That's so gay,' ‘She's so queer.'”

Espie agreed. “You wouldn't let people say racial or religious stuff that way, like ‘That's so black' or ‘She's so Baptist.'”

“I appreciate your concerns,” Mr. Harris said to the girls—and it seemed to Carlos that he shifted the same stack of papers he'd previously moved from the left back to the right. “But I believe a group like this would only be disruptive. I can't allow that.”

“Other schools have GSAs,” Sal countered. “They're not disruptive.”

“What other schools do is their business,” Mr. Harris fired back. “I'm responsible for my school. And I say no.”

“But you've got to!” Sal shouted.

Mr. Harris stood to face him. “Son, I said no. You're dismissed!”

The room fell silent as the girls and Sal stood to leave. But Carlos squirmed in his seat, waiting for someone to correct Mr. Harris. According to the GSA websites he'd originally researched, a school did indeed
have
to allow a GSA, whether the principal liked it or not. Surely Sal knew that—didn't he? Then why wasn't he speaking up?

Carlos clenched his jaw, trying to keep quiet. After all, this club was Sal's problem, not his. But the words burst uncontrollably from
Carlos's mouth. “Mr. Harris? Actually, um, you
do
have to let us have the club.”

The group stopped their retreat. All eyes turned toward Carlos. The seconds stretched interminably as Mr. Harris's brow furrowed even deeper.

“Didn't you hear what I said?” Mr. Harris's words rattled like a machine gun.

“Yes, sir.” Carlos jammed his hands into his pockets, trying to keep from trembling. “But, um, according to the ACLU.org site—that's the American Civil Liberties Union—because of, um, a Supreme Court decision about something called the Federal Equal Access Act, you
have
to allow the club.” Carlos swallowed the lump in his throat. “Even if you think it's immoral.”

Sal stared at Carlos, his frustrated scowl slowly turning upward into a smile. Then he triumphantly pivoted to face Mr. Harris—who looked like he'd just been shot.

T
HE LITTLE TROOP
marched victoriously from the principal's office, praising Carlos as a hero.

“You were awesome!” Espie grinned.

“Yeah, wait till I tell Pulga!” Carlotta remarked.

“You were like our secret weapon!” Sal clapped Carlos on the back. “Why didn't you tell me that ACLU stuff before?”

Carlos shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

Even Vicky stopped glowering, apparently starting to forgive him.

And yet Carlos felt like he'd sort of shot himself in the foot, having blown his best chance to dodge the GSA. Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut?

Granted, Mr. Harris hadn't fully said yes to the GSA, but he'd clearly been taken aback, shuffling papers on his desk and saying, “I'll take the matter up with the superintendent.”

Meanwhile, Carlos wondered, how would he explain this to his friends?

Friday evening, he and his buds hung out at Pulga's house, sprawling on the carpet, eating pizza, and playing video games. Carlos waited anxiously, hoping the GSA would escape mention. But Pulga brought it up: “Hey, Carlotta said you whipped Harris's ass at some meeting for that gay group.”

“It's not a gay group,” Carlos corrected, “or Carlotta wouldn't be in it, would she?”

“Is Carlotta bi?” Playboy asked Pulga excitedly. “Dude, you should get her to do a three-way—two babes at once!”

“I wish!” Pulga told Playboy. “But she's not bi. I already asked.”

“You stood up to Hard-Ass Harris?” Toro asked Carlos, glancing up from the muscle mag he'd been reading.

“Sort of. I guess so. I just told him the law says he has to allow the group.”

“Yeah, great, genius,” Pulga moaned. “Thanks to you, now Carlotta is trying to get me to join the group. Every day she gets more bossy, like she thinks she's my girlfriend. Tomorrow she wants me to go to a movie with her.”

“You mean, like a date?” Playboy shook his head with disapproval. “You'd better nip that in the bud right away.”

“How?” Pulga moaned. “I don't want to give up the sex.”

The boys became silent, listening to a Los Lonely Boys CD, and Carlos's thoughts turned to Roxy. Would she one day go to a movie with him? He didn't completely get why Pulga and Playboy were so against having a real girlfriend, but he didn't want to ask and seem stupid, either.

Playboy stood from the carpet. “I want to check my Hot-or-Snot rating.”

“What for?” Carlos tried to dissuade him. “It'll only make you feel bad.”

“You don't know that.” Playboy strode over to Pulga's computer. “It might've gone up.”

But his rating had actually declined even further—sinking below the “five” threshold.

“No!” Playboy slammed the mouse down. “This can't be happening. I'm not snot!”

“Hey, chill, man!” Pulga gave his shoulder a soothing pat, but Playboy shoved him away.

As the boys crowded around, he switched to the girls' profiles, rating each with a “one.”

“They're
doing this to me. They're all bitches!”

“Take it easy, dude.” Toro intervened, trying to pry the mouse from Playboy's hand.

But Playboy brushed him off too, continuing to click photos. “Take that, bitch! See how it feels, bitch!”

“Dude, calm down,” Carlos urged, when suddenly, unexpectedly, the computer screen flashed a familiar green-eyed girl.

“STOP!” Carlos shouted so loud the boys froze—even Playboy Carlos yanked the mouse from his hand and leaned over the monitor, unable to believe his eyes. Staring back from the screen at him was
USERNAME:
GlitterGirl.
But the photo was unmistakably Roxy.

DESCRIPTION:
5′6″ish, blonde highlights, green/brown/or blue eyes (depending on my mood) … single … available (hint-hint) … a cheerleader … fun kind of girl … and I'm not lez so guys plz stop asking, ok?