Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (10 page)

“You and RC III?” Camille asked. She shook her head like she couldn't comprehend the connection.

“Yeah, the school's replaced band camp with this stripper camp for cheerleaders. That's what it looked like.”

“Cool,” Austin said. Tess punched his arm.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd gone up there?” Camille asked.

I didn't talk to her. I talked to the band peeps. I leaned forward really intensely. “How many of you saw my Facebook post the other day? About the pop machine?”

Most people raised their hands—but not everybody.

“Listen, you guys. This is serious. This is straight-up serious, okay? The absolute, 100 percent reason we don't have camp is that the school board took all the money from the pop machine in the cafeteria and gave it to this dance coach to pay for the cheerleaders' stripper lessons.”

“No!” Omar shouted.

“Is that really true?” Schae asked.

“Hell yeah, it is,” I said.

“I only plug that bitch machine because we get the damn money back!” Austin shouted.

I think Austin drank as much Code Red as me during the school year, sir. He bought three bottles during our research project. (He didn't get fat though, lucky guy. He might be on meth, but I don't think he is.)

“Me too, dude,” I said.

“That's why we're fund-raising,” Camille said.

“Wow. Wow. No wonder Shaver went off the deep end,” Schae said.

“Bet he got depressed because we get so little respect,” Omar said.

“I want to blow some shit up!” Austin shouted.

“Yeah. Me too,” Schae said.

Others sort of growled and got mad, which is good because we should be mad. We shouldn't just accept crap because we're used to crap, right?

“So what if we went up to the school tomorrow and did a little protesting? Let Deevers and the cheer bitches know that we're pissed and that Shaver had better not get fired and we're not going to take it.”

“Don't call them bitches,” Gore said, but nobody listened.

“And what if we get in trouble?” Camille asked.

“We'll use the trouble to spread word about the benefit concert. How about that?”

“Oh,” Camille said.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Omar said.

“Yeah, we're in,” Schae said, referring to herself and her twin sister, Caitlin, who never says a word. (She smiles really nice though.)

“We can't just show up at school,” Camille said. “If we're going to protest, we have to make some signs and know what kinds of slogans we're going to shout.”

“Really? Slogans?” Gore asked. “Like cheers?”

“Like cheers—but with a real message. ‘No blood for oil!' or something.”

“Whose blood?” Austin shouted from the door.

“Yeah!” Tess demanded.

“That's just an example,” Camille said. “We need to make up cheers about how we're mad at—”

“Cheerleaders?” Schae said.

“How about this!” I said. “How about this?” I repeated because I thought I'd been struck by the freaking hand of God right in my face. “We don't talk. We don't cheer. We keep dead silent because they took away the music. Get it? And if the school fires Shaver, the music will die forever. We go in there and just stare at them in complete silence!”

“Really?” Camille asked. Her eyebrows were all knotted, her face pinched. “We just stare at them?”

“Yes! That's one spooky-ass protest, don't you think?” I said, excited.

“Maybe?” Gore said.

But everyone else thought that was a good idea. They all shouted, “Yeah!” and “Spooky.” Camille totally rolled her eyes but didn't fight it.

So we had a plan!

Everyone agreed to do it too, even Gore, who has no connection to the band whatsoever except she hosted the practice, which turned out not to be a practice. We decided to meet at the school at 2:15. (RC III said the doors were open from 2 to 4 p.m. daily so football players could lift weights.) We decided we wouldn't say anything, that we'd be totally silent and spooky to show they'd taken away the music! Cool, right?

Yeah, not very effective maybe.

The only thing musical that was established during the meeting—because Camille wouldn't let it go—was that we all knew how to play the song “Tequila” from memory. That's the song we played while the cheerleaders danced during halftime at home basketball games during the year. We decided we'd play that at our Spunk River concert, but we didn't practice because like six of us had to be home by ten and Austin and Tess were getting bitten by mosquitoes on the deck. The party broke up.

I loved it. I had a great time. My leadership bone was getting strong, right?

Yeah, Camille was pissed at me. She had a right to be pissed too. I wasn't being very nice to her. I didn't respect the concert. I butted into her speech. She was unhappy, sir. Camille was dealing with pretty complicated emotions too. She left when everyone else did. Right before she went out the door, she whispered, “Justin and Janessa.”

“Oh, shit,” I said. “You know.”

“You and RC III. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Me either,” she said.

“I'm not dating RC III,” I said.

“This is the worst summer ever,” she said. Then she left.

What could I do? I stayed behind and helped Gore clean up.

Gore put some dance music on. Like drum machine synthesizer euro club crap that I wouldn't normally like, except Gore danced around cleaning. She danced all over the place, shaking her big booty. It was awesome, man.

Sure, I did a little ass-shaking myself. You know I'm down to do so, given the right situation.

While we cleaned (picked up napkins and lemonade cups, loaded dishes into a dishwasher that looked more like a luxury airplane), Gore shouted, “You should be nicer to your girlfriend.”

“Who?” I shouted back.

“Camille.”

“Seriously. She's really not my girlfriend. Okay?”

“Nicer to your friend then,” Gore said. “You shouldn't call the cheerleaders bitches either.”

“Why not? Look at what they've done to us.”

“You don't have to be like them. You're a nice boy, you know? You've always been nice to me.”

“Not really.”

“Polite at least, which made me like you because polite is so much better than most people in our grade.”

“Our school is filled with idiots,” I said. “That picture of me and Grandpa is proof.”

“I think that picture is adorable,” Gore said. Off she danced, bouncing up and down.

I felt a little warm. Gore has really pretty eyes and she can move really well, even though she's giant. And so I got a little tickle in my gut. I watched her and the tickle spread.

Then she said, “Where was RC III? Didn't he say he'd be here?”

That broke the spell, sir. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Wonder why he didn't come.”

“Um…texted right before I got here. Fight with his dad. Couldn't make it.”

“Oh. That's sad. I like him a lot.”

My heart slowed. “Yeah?” I said.

“Yeah. He's really cool, don't you think?”

“Could you give me a ride home?” I asked.

“Now?” Gore asked.

“I'm tired and it's past eleven. And I'm supposed to call if I'm going to be late and I didn't.”

“All you poor people with your on-site parents,” Gore said.

“My mom ran away to Japan,” I said.

“That's cool,” Gore said.

Then she drove me home.

Sure. I'll admit it flat out, sir. Despite everything—her murdering and her scary makeup—I found myself super attracted to Gore.

She didn't really murder, right?

No, Gore isn't anything like that big-boobed coach. I mean. I'm really attracted to Gore, not just, like, addicted to the…her…boobs? Jesus.

Okay. Let's talk about Kailey because that's easier.

I think part of the crack we're sold by the man is the whole notion of Kailey Kaus, you know? Her hair smells like lilacs because she puts expensive shit in her hair that smells like lilacs. It isn't like her hair grows from her head smelling like a spring morning. And she kicks around her legs like a sexy pony, and pretty soon, we're all convinced we love her because we love lush-haired, spring-smelling ponies because that's what the good life looks like on my computer, right? That's what the girls on advertising look like.

Gore isn't crack. She isn't just a powdered donut.

When she dropped me off, she grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you for letting me host your band. It was very fun.”

I stared into her ghost eyes, which didn't blink, got lost for a second. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Okay.” I kept staring for a few seconds.

Then she tipped her head, looked past me, and said, “There are men watching us.”

“What?”

“From your house,” Gore said.

I turned to the house and saw Dad and Grandpa's heads in the picture window. “Bye,” I said fast and got out.

It was kind of bad when I got inside.

Grandpa and Dad didn't know where I was and it was past my curfew. And they were jacked up. Dad's face was all red and his hands were trembling. I'm sure that's what got to Grandpa because he isn't so whacked out usually.

They glared at me, shook their heads, blocked my path to the hall and stairs.

“Hello?” I said.

“We're having a heart attack because we think you're dead, and meanwhile, you're out there in some car, sucking face with a zombie?” Grandpa shouted.

“We weren't sucking face,” I said. “She just dropped me off.”

“What the hell were you doing?” Dad shouted. “Where've you been?”

“Hanging out,” I said. “I'm like twenty minutes late. What's the big deal?”

“What happened to that loud hippie girl?” Grandpa shouted. Then he smiled. “You find yourself a hotter number?”

“What? No,” I said.

“Use your damn phone if you're going to be late,” Dad said. “Or you're not going out at night. Do you understand?”

“Twenty minutes late,” I said.

“You giving us lip?” Grandpa asked.

“No.”

“You want me to ground you right now?” Dad asked.

“Are you kidding?”

“Don't push me,” Dad said.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted. “Fine. Sorry. I'm going to bed.”

“That's lip!” Grandpa shouted.

I pushed past them and went downstairs fast.

Dad stood at the top and shouted after me, “You watch it, buddy. You watch it!”

Watch what? Man! Weird as hell. Dad stayed home from work to spy on me and then freaked out about twenty minutes? Clearly, something wasn't right with him. Isn't right.

He wasn't exactly pissed this morning, no. More like a zombie. He half-hugged me and told me he wanted to take me home. I was glad he couldn't take me home, to tell you the truth. I'd rather be here with you.

Anyway, I was pissed and I decided to write nasty things about the cheerleaders on Facebook. Stuff about them being strippers.
DANCE SQUAD ACTUALLY HIGHLY TRAINED TEENAGED HUMPING MACHINE.
Something like that. But when I opened Facebook, I saw the message from Mr. Shaver.

Barry Shaver, June 12 at 10:22 p.m.

Hey, all. I appreciate the notes of support. I made an awful mistake on top of my original, more terrible mistake. I didn't fight for you guys. I didn't fight for our band. Then I doubled up on my cowardice. This meeting with administration Friday might not go well. But you guys have to hang together. You'll still be the Minnekota Lake Area High School Band, our band, whether I'm with you or not. Keep working for one another. You're all great. I'm so sorry I let you all down.

How'd it make me feel?

Like I was sinking in mud. So sad. I love Shaver.

There were a ton of messages of support. I read through all of them. I left a message myself. It's in there someplace. I just said we'd always love him no matter what.

Yeah. Sure. Shaver made it easy for the school board to claim he incited the trouble. “Keep working for one another.” He didn't do it though. We planned the protest before he wrote that message.

No, I didn't write anything about the stripper team. I went to sleep.

Do you have any ibuprofen on you? My scrapes are throbbing.

Gore wasn't at the shop in the morning. Neither was RC III. Thursdays are the quietest days because the resort cabins turn over. Lots of people head home after their week on the lake. We were staffed low and expected a slow day. (Thankfully, it rained pretty bad too, which reinforces slower business.)

It was just me and Dante and he had the news station on the radio. I couldn't stop singing
Love, love will tear us apart…again,
which is a very, very good song that Gore played on her computer while we were all out there on her dock and I'll tell you this, sir: Dante just stood back and put his hands on his hips and said, “What in the hell happened to you, Chunky boy?”

“What?” I asked.

“What are you singing about? You don't sing.”

“I have songs stuck in my head all the time.”

“But you don't sing. I'm telling you, kid. I've heard you shout a lot and make a bunch of fart noises, but I've never heard you sing. What in the hell happened?”

“Make the donuts, dude,” I said. But I smiled. And I kept singing. I was thinking about Gore for sure. I sang and sang.

Well, it was a stupid day otherwise, so why not dwell on my singing for a little, right, Mr. Rodriguez? Better laugh than cry. In this case anyway.

Apparently, I'm the only one who thought it was a bad day. I still think we failed.

Enough customers to make time move. A song in my heart. The morning cruised past. Then it was time for my very first protest.

Camille picked me up from work. She would barely talk to me in the car really. She has problems, you know? I mean, she's not the only person in the world. Selfish.

We got up to the school and there were a bunch of cars in the lot already.

It was a good turnout, sir. You know that. Cops have a pretty good list of names.

Fifteen band members showed up, plus Gore. (We gained a couple people in the crew overnight because of Shaver's message, I'm sure.) We all gathered in front of the doors and I said, “Remember, totally silent. Don't say a word to anyone. We're just going to go in there and we're going to freak them out with our silence. I'll write a note letting them know that it's only going to get worse and worse unless they leave Shaver alone and bring back band camp.” (I held up a notebook, which I should've written in before going into the school.)

Maybe Austin Bates is smarter than he seems because while everybody else nodded like the plan was genius, he said, “Worse how, yo? Like, as in more fat asses and dipshits gonna stand there in a crew staring into space for no apparent reason. How is that scary?”

Schae Petersen said, “This is called nonviolent protest, Austin. Like Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi.”

“Gandhi?” Austin asked. “That like chronic, girl?”

“I fear for our future,” Camille said.

“Let's go,” I said.

The school door was open. We entered the building. The gym doors were closed. I could hear Ms. Clark, the big-boobed blonde lady, barking her dance team orders. “Get crispy on it, ladies. Turn. Squat. Explode!”

Tess and Austin giggled. (I assume about squat and explode.) I glared at them. And then—

Right, sir, I'm not proud. I don't care what anyone says. This was embarrassing.

We stood there for five minutes and did nothing but breathe and shrug and clear our throats until RC III walked out of the locker room with Joe Wruck. RC III stopped in his tracks and stared at us, and we all stared back at him. And then he laughed and said, “Gabe, man, what in the world are you doing?”

I shook my head because we made the silence pact.

He smiled. “You all look foolish, you know?”

“Hell yeah, we do. This is shit!” Austin shouted. “Why we following this fat-ass speedo underpants butternuts with this bullshit, Tess? Come on, girl.” Austin walked up to the gym doors and pounded on them. “Woo! Y'all are whores! All of yuh!”

RC III took a step forward. His smile was gone. “Dude. Leave…now.”

Austin froze. “Me?”

“You,” RC III replied.

“Fine.” He turned and left fast. Tess sort of stepped toward the door, turned back to look at us, and then ran after him.

Then, of course, because Austin had made a ruckus, Big Boobs bounded out the gym door and screamed, “Who shouted that? Who are you? You'd better fess up right now or I'll get all of you.”

Then Deevers came bounding down the hall from his office. “What are you kids doing in here? What are you—Who—Chunk? What are you doing?”

Again, sir, I didn't say anything because we'd made the damn silence pact. I should've been writing in the notebook, giving him our demands, but I was frozen on a stick, scared shitless, ice balls in my veins.

“You're not allowed in the building without supervision, guys. Okay? Okay? Get out right now. Right this minute,” Deevers said. His face turned dark red. He looked like he was going to get sick.

We followed his orders. We did. We all shuffled to the exit, our silence pact intact. I was trembling with fear. I didn't write a damn thing in that notebook.

If I'm being honest, sir, I didn't know at the time exactly what our goal was other than doing something, to not just accept the crap.

Like I said, nobody else thought it was stupid. (They might have thought it was stupid if Austin hadn't pounded on the door to give us a little attention.) Everybody gathered in the parking lot and high-fived and talked about how Deevers turned red and how Big Boobs screamed. I think just getting yelled at was enough of an adrenaline charge to make most of us think we'd done something big. This was not a crew of people who had gotten yelled at much in their lives. (As class clown, I was more used to the yelling, I guess.)

I was a little depressed. Maybe embarrassed. I thought about RC III, who was still inside. Then I remembered Austin calling me butternuts and I got pissed, felt victimized.

“Wait,” I shouted. “What are you guys so happy about? Do you realize we just got pushed out of our own school for no reason? We weren't doing anything but standing there. How is that a crime? How does that merit removal? Those football players just get to hang out in the building. The school treats us like we don't belong.”

Everyone fell silent and stared at me. The sun beat down on my head, reflected off the shiny cars all around me. It burned my eyes.

Then Camille said, “Who in the heck does that blonde woman think she is? Why should she have any power over us?”

Austin Bates said, “Deevers is a bitch, y'all. I'm sick of it.”

Schae Petersen said, “Did you hear him say ‘Okay? Okay?' like that? He's a douche!”

Then Gore pretty much reiterated what I said. “Why do we get treated like criminals? We didn't do anything. I don't do anything wrong. We were just standing there. The cheerleaders can dance and shout and that's great. But we can't even stand quietly in our own school?”

I sat back on the front of Gore's station wagon. I nodded at these people. I said, “If we're going to get treated like criminals for no reason, I think maybe we should act more like criminals. Think about it. Let's meet later. I have to go home.”

Seriously, sir. I had to go home. I was so, so, so hungry. I wanted to stuff my face in private or I wanted to work out to stop myself from stuffing my face. The stress of the day took a toll on me. Stress makes a hole in me that needs filling.