From Butt to Booty (7 page)

Didn’t anyone get a new razor for Christmanukahzaa? What is it with guys and shaving? We’re out of school for two weeks and they all revert to caveman-gorilla antics. I mean, it’s like they forget the truth, and the truth is—boys can’t grow beards.

I have never in my life seen so many spotty Brillo pads. And not nice, even Brillo pads, but the kind Aunt Erma used for thirty years and couldn’t bear to part with, so it’s all sparse in sections and blotchy in others.

There isn’t a single manly-boy in our school who can successfully grow any facial hair without looking like an armadillo in a Spider-Man costume. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example, but can you imagine how bad that armadillo looks?

What’s with the fuzzy cheeks and single strands on chins? Just because they don’t shave doesn’t mean it belongs there. It’s like us not shaving a section of our calves and calling it fashion. It’s not sexy, it’s inept.

And what’s with the soul patch thing? Who thinks that’s attractive? It just looks like he missed a spot. And what’s with touching the hair all the time? Is it the same primordial instinct that has them grabbing their penises just to make sure they’re still attached? Scratch the chin, pull the peter and it’s all good.

Don’t mind me. I’m just in the crappiest mood ever. It’s the Monday after Christmas break. Which means we’re no longer counting down to vacation, but instead starting back at square one. Summer’s too far away to count down to and spring break doesn’t count because it’s close to summer.

I have official post-vacation traumatic syndrome. I am a victim of the system. Oh, there’s Adam. We have Introduction to Ceramics and Photography this semester. Thank Holy-Mother-Registrar for that one. At least I have a chance to see him without Tim around. Though want to bet I will be their official Pony Express for notes they don’t feel like texting?

“Gertie.”

“Addy.” I hate that nickname, Gertie. Sounds like something your grandmother buys to keep her boobs from dragging on the ground. We walk to class together and get seats next to each other.

He laughs. “So, I heard the first couple of weeks are yoga.”

“In art?” Maybe this isn’t such a miraculous event.

“It’s to get our Shakira all flowing smoothly.”

“You mean chakra?” I clarify.

“Whatever. It’s weird.”

“Why are we taking this class?”

“It’s a graduation requirement.”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe graduation isn’t so important,” Adam whispers as silence falls in the classroom.

Ms. DaVoe glides in wearing black Lycra shorts with an ancient tube top, draped in one hundred colored polyester scarves and wearing earrings that qualify for landmass proportions. Her hair is three different shades of boxed reds with jet-black roots and a black swath down the middle of her head like a roadkill skunk. Her wrists are covered with silver bangles and each finger sports at least one ring, most with stones the size of boulders. Her feet are tucked into striped socks that have been darned several times and Birkenstocks that must have actually been at Woodstock. Have I mentioned she’s like a hundred and three? And she emits an aroma seriously resembling pot. There’s an almost visible haze surrounding her. How did she get this job?

“Children of my heart. Welcome to this sacred space. We are going to have a beautiful time together.” Her voice is raspy and deep, like she’s obliterated her vocal cords inhaling one too many times.

“Kill me now.” I’m not really a beautiful, sacred-space kind of person. I’m more a glass-and-chrome, wire-me-and-leave-me-alone, I-like-my-personal-space kind of girl.

“Suicide pact.” Adam looks as horrified as I feel.

“We’ll get to expressing ourselves using the media of your choice, but first we must release the creative spirits in each of us. Let’s push the desks back and make a circle in the middle of the
room.” She snaps her fingers and we all jump. “Hearts, please trust me.”

I am so screwed. I have trust issues with doped-up grannies who use words like “spirits” and “hearts.” I should work on that.

I walk into history ready to have Ms. Whoptommy kick the dope smoke out of my brain. There’s no way I didn’t inhale for the entire period of art. I think the drug dog must be dealing on the side not to notice Ms. DaVoe’s digs.

My glance settles on my usual desk. There’s a rose on it. My feet slow. Wrong desk? And then it hits me. It’s the right desk.

Stephen’s sitting in his seat, turned toward me, trying to sneak a peek at my face without being obvious.

He did not. Oh my Goddess, you have to be kidding me. Holy-Mother-of-a-Young-Girl’s fantasy, there is a red rose on my desk. I can’t believe it.

“Congratulations.” Ms. Whoptommy twitches in the general direction of the rose like it pains her for me to receive any tokens of affection.

“For me?” Of course I have to say that. “Thank you.” On our eight-week anniversary and everything. Maybe the bad kissing can be balanced out by gift giving. No. Not really.

Stephen blushes. I’ve never seen him blush. It could be the glare Ms. Whoptommy is shooting at him. “You—well, you know, eight weeks,” he stammers. Then he mouths “anniversary” to me, like clearly I read lips better than I understand spoken word.

Anniversary. Wow. I have an anniversary. Maybe I should have given him something. But how was I supposed to know that we
celebrated weeks? I mean, who celebrates weeks? I didn’t think guys could handle remembering wedding dates, let alone serious-dating-exclusivity-hanging-out-hooking-up dates. What to say? What to say?

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Thanks.” I’m not supposed to say “I love you,” am I? I mean, am I? What if I am? Do I love him? How do you know?

How in the world am I supposed to know?

Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Must breathe.

Air. Need air.

Love. Do I love him?

No, I don’t. I don’t think I do.

Here’s the deal. I don’t believe I could fall in love with such a bad kisser. Oh, wouldn’t that be the best? It’s so me. I fall in love with the world’s worst lover and he’ll be my soul mate. I will be destined to lots of time on my back without any moaning.

At least, not real moaning. Maybe that’s what they mean by faking it.

What if good lovers are rare and the bad ones are ubiquitous? Can you learn how to be a good lover like learning how to play the piano? Is it an acquired skill, or is it heredity? Like blue eyes or left-handedness. Why don’t they teach us the useful crap?

He’s waiting. Looking at me. Expecting something. What does he want from me? “How are you today?”

“Good. You?” Again with the peering. My dentist spends less time staring at my mouth.

“Real good.”
Real good?
What am I, the Dairy Council’s new campaign?
Got good? Real good
.

“Okay, students. Focus, please. Some of us came here today to learn something.” Ms. Whoptommy pauses to give me a scathing glare. She’s insanely good at glaring.

“Someone didn’t eat her oat bran this morning.” I don’t actually say that out loud. Only think it. Wait. No. I look around. The shock and awe on everyone’s face pretty much confirm that I said it out loud. Ms. Whoptommy is ruining my rosy moment.

“See me after class.” She clicks her wicked-fake orange fingernails on my desk.

My anniversary will also be known as the day I got expelled from high school.

I wait until the class empties, clutching my rose like it’s a magical ward against evil.

“Ms. Garibaldi, do you have anything to say before we get started?”

“Sorry?” Sorry is always a good place to start and since I’m sure she’s going to make me say it eventually, maybe I’ll just get it over with now.

“You sound unsure.” She presses her lips together until they’re just a white slit.

“I’m not. I’m sure. I’m sorry,” I grovel. I’m not proud of it.

“Hmm. Ms. Garibaldi, you have the potential to be one of my best students. But it’s potential you seem eager to waste.”

I open my mouth.

She flicks a hand to stop me. “Let me finish, you’ve had your say today. You need to seriously consider where you want to end up in two years. At the college of your dreams? With a career? Or pregnant with your second child and married to your baby daddy?”

I’m horrified I just heard the words “baby daddy” come out of Ms. Whoptommy’s mouth. “I—”

“I think it serves your interests to discuss your apology with Principal Jenkins, don’t you?” She turns back to her desk.

I don’t move.

“That’s all.” She doesn’t even look at me when she says it.

Clarice is determined to ignore Spenser by violently eating carrot sticks while turned in my direction. “You have any interest in soccer?” she asks me.

My mind is still on Ms. Whoptommy’s dressing-down. “Why?” Am I going to have to move to Bolivia to complete my high school education?

Clarice’s eyes roll back in her head like she’s trying to see Spenser without actually turning around to get a good look. “They’re starting a girls’ team.”

“So?” I’m still not following. Though I am fascinated by the things her eyeballs can do. I wonder if mine do that.

“It’s a Title Nine thing. Some parent got pissed because there’s a boys’ chess club.” She’s scary intent today, chomping on the carrots like they’re Al Qaeda carotene.

I ask the obvious. “Then why don’t they open a girls’ chess club?”

She shrugs. “Quid pro something legal.” She says each word in between Spenser’s like she’s eavesdropping, then speaking.

“Oh.” This makes less sense than her usual.

There’s a pause in the action as Spenser grabs his stuff and stomps away. Clarice can’t converse well with me and focus every
atom on a guy, not that I blame her. I haven’t mastered the art of multitasking either.

Her whole body relaxes when he’s out of earshot. “So, they’re having tryouts. Word is anyone who shows up will get on the team.” She throws the carrots back in her bag. I’m pretty sure she consumed more vegetable matter than is grown in California in the six minutes Spenser sat behind her.

She’s still talking about soccer? Here I thought we were just making stupid small talk until he left. Huh. She’s serious. I say, “Which means that hypothetical try-ees will actually have to run around after a ball, right?” This doesn’t work for me.