Plastic (5 page)

I hate watching myself on tv. I look like such a dork. All arms and legs and crooked nose. The interview I do for our local station takes twenty minutes. Only three minutes of it gets aired. Three minutes of me looking and sounding like an idiot. The local paper sends a reporter and a photographer to our house. The reporter is nice enough, but after seeing myself on
TV
, I'm pretty nervous. When I'm nervous, I tend to babble. This is not a good thing. The reporter interviews Mom too. She says stuff like
Jack's father and I fully support Jack's
protest
and
We're very proud of him
. When the reporter asks me how my girlfriend feels about what I'm doing, I blurt out, “I don't have a girlfriend.”

“No girlfriend,” he says. “That's… interesting.” Maybe he's trying to figure out whether I'm gay. No one gets why a straight guy my age doesn't want all girls to have bigger tits. Why a gay guy would care is beyond me.

Instead of telling the guy to shove it up his ass, I say, “I'm trying to bring attention to a complex issue. You are trying to trivialize it. I wish you wouldn't.” It's the first time I've spoken without stumbling over my words.

The guy looks flustered and asks me what it's like to grow up in an activist family.

An activist family. Is that what we are?

I shrug and say, “We're pretty normal, except for the protest signs in the basement.”

“But your parents don't really live together,” the reporter says.

“What does that have to do with anything?” The guy is starting to piss me off.

“Well, it's not exactly…normal.”

“Oh, and what's normal, exactly?”

He backs off and asks me some cream-puff questions: What subjects am I good at? What do I want to be when I grow up? I tell him I want to be a doctor (I don't), and then he asks, “Do your classmates support your protest?”

I consider lying, but why bother? I doubt whether I can get any less popular than I already am. “Are you kidding?” I reply. “They think I'm nuts. But I'm not. Bigger isn't always better, you know.”

I should have kept my mouth shut. I really should've.
Bigger Isn't Always
Better
follows me around like a hungry puppy. It's the headline of the article in the newspaper the next day. The clerk at my local video store says, “Hey, you're that
Bigger Isn't Always Better
dude, aren't you? What's your problem, man?” Comments on my blog run from
Right
on!
from someone who signs himself Pencildick to
What are you, some sort
of fag?
from Superstud. So original.

It's my very own
Where's the beef?
or
Just do it
. Some people pay a lot for a slogan. At least I got mine for free.

About a week after the article comes out in the paper, Mike and Daisy turn up on my picket line, unannounced. I didn't even know they were home. They are wearing bright yellow T-shirts with my slogan on the front. The double
g'
s of the word
Bigger
hug Daisy's perfect breasts. Her T-shirt is tiny. Her jeans are tight and low. Something glitters in her navel. A diamond? A pearl?

Before I can figure it out, Mike grabs me and gives me an enthusiastic noogie. Thank god there are no news vans around. “Hey, Baby Bro,” he says. “You call this a picket line?”

“I don't call it anything,” I say. I squirm away from him, my face red and my hair a mess.

Daisy reaches up and smoothes my hair off my face. “Ignore him,” she says. “I do.” She smells good. A mix of sweat and some flower I can't identify and a whiff of weed.

She locks elbows with me, and we march away from Mike. “You always alone here?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Sometimes Mom comes. Dad's been down a couple of times. But mostly it's just me.”

“Who are those people then?” She points at a beat-up Subaru station wagon that has just pulled up in front of the building. A little boy climbs out of the backseat and jumps up and down on the sidewalk. A man and a woman pull signs out of the back of the car. The boy looks vaguely familiar. As they get closer, I realize he's the kid in the photo at Dr. Thompson's office. The little boy is zigzagging across the pavement, his arms wide. He's making an airplane noise, which stops when he gets to me. His little round nose is shiny and red.

The woman runs up after him, smiling and out of breath.

“You must be Jack,” she says, holding out her hand for me to shake. “I'm Janice Goren, Marvin's wife. And the airplane's mother.” She puts one hand on the boy's head. “Say hello to Jack, Bernie.”

“She's pretty,” Bernie says, pointing at Daisy.

Janice blushes. “Bernie, be polite.”

“But she is,” he says. I guess when you're five, everything is black and white.

Daisy squats in front of Bernie. “Thanks, Bernie. I'm Daisy. This is Mike, Jack's brother.” Mike flashes Bernie a
hang ten
sign. “Do you want to walk with us?”

Bernie's eyes are glued to the word
Bigger
on Daisy's chest. He nods and takes Daisy's hand.

“That okay, Ms. Goren?” says Daisy. “We'll take good care of him.”

“Oh, call me Janice,” Bernie's mom replies. “And don't forget your sign, Bernie.”

She hands him a mini-placard that says
Too Young for the Knife
. Jeez. What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Ten

It's nice having company on the picket line. Mike and Daisy join me almost every day after school. Dr. Thompson and his family show up on weekends for a few hours. Dr. Thompson gets interviewed for a follow-up piece in the paper. Then his office gets broken into. Nothing is stolen, but the place is tossed, and someone takes a dump on his desk.

He seems more puzzled than upset when I ask him about it. “Cost of free speech, I guess,” he says. “Can't imagine why someone would do that though. What did they hope to gain? I'm not about to start cutting up fourteen year-olds just because someone does something disgusting in my office.”

“Will your insurance cover the cleanup?” I ask.

“No need,” he says. “The worst thing was the…uh…desk business. I just gloved up, put on a mask and dealt with it. I've seen worse things.”

“Did you at least call the police?”

He nods. “There's a report on file. No leads.”

We walk together in silence for a while.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Not that I don't appreciate it. I mean, aren't you worried about your reputation?”

He laughs. “My reputation? No. I'm a good doctor. I'll continue to do what I do. Everyone already knows I don't operate on kids. But you're bringing attention to something important. I support that. That's why I'm here. What about you? Why are you here?”

I stop and stare at him. “Isn't it obvious?”

“Not really,” he says. “I mean, yes, I know what got you started. But what exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

I think for a minute. “I guess I want cosmetic surgeons to stop operating on teenagers. Mostly I want Dr. Myers to stop. I'm not stupid enough to think I can change the law or anything.”

He nods. “I wouldn't be so sure. How about I put you in touch with the head of the SPS—the Society of Plastic Surgeons? Maybe they'll get on board.”

“Why would they?” I ask.

“Because most of them are excellent doctors. Not greedy, unethical bastards.”

“Speak of the devil,” I say.

Dr. Myers jumps out of a black BMW and race-walks over to Dr. Thompson.

“You support this…cretin?” he says, jabbing his finger at me. Mike and Daisy come to stand beside me—one on each side. Janice takes Bernie into the café. Dr. Thompson stands very still.

“I do support him, Ron,” he says. “But you already know that.”

The jabbing finger comes closer to my chest. “I've got patients cancelling surgeries. Asking questions. The media…they're all over me.” The finger makes contact with my breastbone. Mike steps in front of me, arms crossed.

“And they'll be really interested when my little brother here charges you with assault,” he says.

Assault? Is he crazy? It was just a finger. It didn't even hurt. I'm about to tell him that when Dr. Myers whirls around and stomps back to his car.

“You'll be hearing from my lawyers,” he yells.

“Ooooh! We're shaking in our boots,” Mike yells back.

Actually, I am. Shaking, that is. Mike turns to me and pumps his fist.

“This is awesome!” he says. “I'm gonna call the cops. And that VTV chick. This could go national!” He whips out his phone and starts to dial. I grab the phone away from him and stick it in the one place I know he won't go: down the front of my pants.

“Hey! Why'd you do that?” he says. “You can't buy this kind of publicity.”

I look at Dr. Thompson. “What do you think?”

“No cops. Not worth it, unless you really are going to charge him. And there's no way it would ever make it to court.”

“At least call that tv chick,” Mike pleads.

Dr. Thompson nods. “It's not a bad idea, Jack. Keep the issue in the public eye.”

I fish out the phone and hand it back to Mike. He wipes it on his T-shirt before he calls the station. It strikes me as a little weird that he knows the number.

When Mike gets off the phone, he grins and says, “Tomorrow at seven am, Baby Bro. You and the good doctor. At the studio.”

“Me? On
TV
?” Dr. Thompson doesn't look too thrilled. His nose is almost glowing. Sweat trickles down the side of his head.

“You'll be great,” Mike says, thumping him on the back. “Really give the whole thing some credibility.”

I glare at him. “So it didn't have credibility before?”

He ruffles my hair. “You know what I mean, man. He's a doctor. You're a kid.”

“A kid who already got on tv without your help, Mike.” Daisy's voice is soft, but stern.

“You're kidding me, right?” Mike looks at her as if he's seeing her for the first time. She looks the same as always—totally hot—but she's frowning. At Mike.

“He needs support, Mike, not a manager.”

“But we came here to—”

Daisy cuts him off. “Let it go, Mike.”

I'm completely confused. What did they come here to do? Why is Daisy suddenly so pissed at Mike? And why am I so happy to see Mike jump on his bike and ride away? Dr. Thompson's interview at the
TV
station goes well. He's easy to like. The patient comes first. I don't run off at the mouth, but I still feel like puking. When we're done, the interviewer says that there's been national attention for the story.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“More exposure,” Dr. Thompson says.

More attention, I think. I should be happy. I know Mike will be. But all I can think is, When is it going to stop?

Dr. Thompson drops me off at school on his way to work. I look around for Leah, even though she still isn't talking to me. I really want to talk to her. She's not in any of the classes we share. She's not in the cafeteria at lunchtime. She's not in the nurse's office with cramps. I finally catch up with her friend, Alicia Wong, at McDonald's after school. Alicia is okay. Really serious and hard-working. Not a big risk taker. Definitely not a good liar.

“Where's Leah?” I ask.

“None of your business, Jack,” she says. “She has a right to privacy.” It sounds as if someone has coached her.

“Is she sick?”

Alicia shakes her head. “Um, not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“She'll be fine. Really.”

I sit down hard on one of plastic chairs. Alicia runs away, her book bag bumping against her hip. Crap. Leah must have had the surgery. Now what do I do?

I walk home slowly, thinking about Leah. I wish I could see her. Tell her I'm sorry. Bring her some juice or something. Do whatever it is you do for someone who's just had surgery. Buy her some trashy magazines. Turn back the clock.

I read my emails when I get home.
The Globe and Mail
wants an interview. So does
The National Post.
Maclean's
magazine called. As far as I'm concerned, they can all go to hell.

Chapter Eleven

“I'm shutting it down,” I tell Mike at breakfast the next day.

“No way, man,” he says over his Lucky Charms. For such a smart guy, he sure eats some dumb things. Daisy is drinking coffee and eating a toasted bagel. She is sitting across from Mike, not next to him like she did when they first got here. There is a dab of cream cheese on her upper lip. I want to lick it off.

“Leave him alone, Mike,” she says. “It's his battle.”

Mike snorts. “He's not much a warrior, is he? Quits at the first sign of bloodshed.”

Bloodshed? Is Mike talking about Leah? How could he know? I feel sick thinking about the scalpel sinking into her flesh. The blood. The sutures.

“Leah's had the operation,” I manage to say. “It's over. I just want life to go back to the way it was.” Like it ever could.

“She's had the operation?” Daisy puts her bagel down and licks her fingers. “Are you sure?”

“She's not at school. One of her friends sort of told me why.”

“I'm so sorry, Jack,” Daisy says. “You must be so worried about her.”

I nod. “I messed up. None of it did any good. And I lost my best friend.”

“That's not true,” Daisy says. She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are still a bit wet where she licked them. I pray my palm isn't sweaty. “Even if Leah didn't listen, some other girl might. And Leah's still your friend. She just can't admit it right now. She probably misses you too.”