Sway (18 page)

Pete shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“I mean, I know he's popular,” she continued, talking around a mouthful of food. “He'll get voted homecoming king, of course, because people don't have sense enough to vote on any other merit besides how well someone can throw a football. But he's the biggest turd in school.”

“He's probably not worth much emotion—love or hate,” I said as I traced a pattern in the condensation on my glass.

“Believe me—” Theresa licked ketchup from her thumb. “—if Bridget knew what he was really like, there is no way she would go out with him. No. Way.”

“Yeah? What's he like?” I asked.

“A bully,” she said with feeling. “Since middle school I've had to listen to people like him with their stupid fat jokes. The only thing worse than fat jokes is having people look at me like they feel sorry for me, telling me I have such nice hair and skin.” She laughed ruefully as she plucked at the ends of her hair. “You know, people always tell a fat girl she has lovely hair or skin because they can't think of anything else nice to say.”

“Maybe fat people really do have nicer hair and skin—because they eat more … protein or something,” Pete suggested helpfully. Theresa considered his comment for a minute while I bit my lower lip to suppress a smile.

“Anyway,” Theresa continued, unfazed by Pete's comment, “Ken and his friends are so stupid. They're like in kindergarten or something. And I'm such an idiot, I actually used to have a crush on that douche bag. I mean, he's gorgeous but it's not as if I think he would ever want to sleep with me or something.” She waited until the silence had reached awkward status before she spoke again. “But I suppose that's obvious to you, since someone like Ken would never want to sleep with a girl like me, right?”

I just waited, hoping the question was rhetorical, but Pete forged ahead with the complete lack of social prowess that was his trademark. “I would sleep with just about any girl,” he said. “Unless she smelled really bad. Or had VD or something. I don't really care so much what a person looks like. I mean, look at me, right? My face is crooked and I've got a limp. I talk funny.…” He trailed off, suddenly frustrated with itemizing a list of his own shortcomings.

Theresa's eyes were narrowed appraisingly as she considered Pete's monologue. “You know, maybe you shouldn't spend so much time talking about your … disabilities,” she said. “You're just asking for negative attention.”

“Look who's talking,” Pete shot back. “You keep talking about how fat you are. You think I wouldn't give anything just to be fat?
You
can lose weight. I can't change who I am.”

“Well, at least people feel sorry for you,” Theresa said. “People love to hate on a fat person. They figure if a person is fat, then they're just lazy, or they eat too much. They don't think maybe a person has a medical condition that makes them that way. At least you people feel sorry for. They know it's not your fault that you walk with a limp.”

“So, that's why you're … overweight?” Pete asked. “Because you have some kind of medical condition?”

“No, stupid, I eat too damn much,” she said with a shit-eating grin that made both Pete and me laugh out loud. Theresa was like Mr. Dunkelman's dream girl. Suddenly I found myself cataloging her physical traits, assessing her desirability. She really did have nice hair.

“So, what did Ken do to you?” I asked.

Theresa sighed impatiently as she studied her burger to plan her next bite. There was a smudge of ketchup in the corner of her mouth as she said, “Like I said, even though he's a total D-bag he's also totally gorgeous. So, earlier this year, before he started dating Bridget, I was walking into school one day and he was looking at me so … I smiled at him. He smiled back at me and I thought he was actually being nice for once. Because I'm an idiot. Then he starts saying all these mean things about me being a lard ass and a whale, making a big show about it in front of his friends. God, what an A-hole.”

“What a creep,” Pete said glumly, and Theresa just nodded.

“You didn't tell Bridget that story?” I asked. Leading the witness. What I wanted to ask is
why
she didn't tell Bridget that story.

“Whatever,” Theresa said with a flutter of her hand as she returned to her burger. “Bridget's not an idiot. And if she's happy with Ken, then I'm happy for her.”

“You're a better person than most,” I said to Theresa. “At least a better friend.”

“I don't know about that,” Theresa said, “and fat lot of good it does me anyway.” She shot us a quirky smile at her pun. “Fat is all people really see. And my awesome hair, of course,” she quipped.

“I would love to tell Bridget that story,” Pete said, “about what Ken said to you. She'd drop him in a second if she knew.”

“Don't you dare,” Theresa said as she put a handful of fries in her mouth. “It's my story and mine to share if I want to, which I don't.”

“I don't think you're fat,” Pete said with such intense solemnity that I wondered if he was experiencing some stir of feelings for Theresa.

Theresa gave up a smile for Pete's efforts. “Thanks,” she said. “And I don't think I smell bad, and I definitely don't have VD, so maybe I still have a chance at homecoming queen, huh?” she asked with a wry twist of her eyebrows.

“You do have good hair,” I said as I flipped one of her waves with my finger.

Her response was to shove me in the ribs with her elbow.

Theresa's loyalty to Bridget impressed me, even though her unwillingness to rat out Ken struck me as irritatingly naïve. Still, she deserved to be rewarded.

 

TWENTY-SIX

Joey and I cornered Gray Dabson in the hallway the following week. We had given him sufficient time to settle his accounting and it was payday. The posters littering the halls to advertise homecoming-week events were a good indication the car wash had been a major financial success.

“Hey, Jesse, I've been looking for you,” Gray said by way of greeting.

“Must not have been looking very hard,” I said, standing a little closer to him than was socially acceptable, close enough that he felt compelled to take a step away.

His laugh was fake and forced because nothing I'd said was funny. “Well—” He cleared his throat as I waited expectantly. “—I wanted to talk to you because the thing is … if I want to disburse any money from the student council account, I have to have some sort of invoice. You know, Mr. Burke manages the account, is the signer on it, and I can't just withdraw money to pay you.”

“Are you saying you want an invoice from me?” I asked, letting my voice rise to express my incredulity. “Is that what you're saying?”

“What I'm saying,” he said, lifting his hands in supplication and giving a helpless shrug, “is I'm not really sure how I can get your money. Mr. Burke took all of the cash the day of the car wash to deposit and I don't have any way to pay you out of the student fund.”

“So, what you're telling me is that you don't have my money, have no way of getting my money. Is that it?” I asked. This was information I already owned, but I had to drill it in to get the result I wanted.

He shrank away from me, wincing as he waited for me to hit him.

“We had a contract,” I said.

“Technically speaking, it was a verbal agreement and probably not one that is legally binding,” he said, and I watched his Adam's apple in fascination as he spoke.

“I could have you put to bed with a shovel,” I said. “I know people.”

“Jesus!” he yelped, and hunched his shoulders as he took a step away. He shot a questioning look at Joey but she just crossed her arms over her chest and cracked her gum. “I'll figure something out,” he said, his voice shaky. “You'll get your money. It just won't be right away.”

I shook my head slowly and fought the urge to rub my forehead in frustration. “Here's the deal,” I said. “You owe me. You. Personally. Your payment is already past due and if you can't make good, I'm going to take it out in-kind.”

“I don't really know what you—”

“Shut up and listen,” I said. “As student council president you oversee the election of homecoming king and queen.”

“I mean, I wouldn't say I oversee it so much as—”

I interrupted his senseless babble. “Theresa Mason. She's already been nominated. You're going to see to it that she wins homecoming queen and Ken Foster will be king.”

“You want me to fix the election?” he squeaked.

“I'm not telling you how or what to do,” I said. “I'm telling you that you owe me, and the outcome I want is for Theresa Mason to be crowned homecoming queen.”

“Jesse, we've already collected a ton of ballots. Bridget Smalley has it by a mile. I hardly even know anything about this Theresa girl. Her nomination came out of nowhere. You have to get at least three nominations to make the ballot. I assumed the nomination was some kind of cruel joke, if you want to know the truth.”

“A joke? Why do you say that?” Joey asked. “Just because she doesn't look like a Barbie doll? Because she doesn't fit society's narrowly defined ideal of beauty?”

“Is that what this is about?” Gray asked with a confused frown. “You're making some kind of social statement?”

“You don't need to know why and you don't need to know anything about Theresa,” I said slowly, clearly, so there would be no misunderstanding. “All you need to know is that she's the next homecoming queen.”

“What about Bridget Smalley?” Gray asked. “She's perfect.”

Joey snorted at his use of the word “perfect” but didn't interrupt his monologue.

“She's smart, beautiful, but still approachable and down-to-earth. And she's already dating Ken. It's not just about the dance, Jesse. The king and queen have other appearances they have to make together and homecoming night they're expected to kick off the dance by dancing together. It's tradition.”

“What's wrong with Theresa as homecoming queen? Are you a fattist?” I asked, only because I knew it would amuse Joey.

“No, God no, Jesse,” Gray said quickly. “I have nothing against fat people. My own mother is fat. I just don't think Bridget can be equaled when it comes to the perfect person to represent Wakefield both now and in the future. You're asking me to fix the election. I—it's—it's dishonest.”

“Oh, please, nut up, Gray,” I said with contempt for his cowardice. “It's not like she's going to be the new governor, for Christ's sake. You find a way,” I said, pointing a finger at him, “or you'd better start watching your back.”

“What was that about?” Joey asked as we walked away from Gray.

“Just business,” I said.

“Usually I can see the big picture you're working toward,” Joey said pensively, “but this time I'll admit it. I'm baffled. Come on, tell me. What's your angle?”

“Maybe Theresa's a friend of mine,” I said.

“First of all,” Joey said, “you don't have any friends. I'm not even sure you like me. Second, if you were going to have a friend, it certainly would not be Theresa Mason. And third, since when do you do things for people, friends included, when there's no cash incentive?”

“Who says there's not?”

“This is it, isn't it?” she asked, and turned to walk backwards so she could study my face. “You've officially lost your mind. You planning some kind of stunt for homecoming? A vat of pig's blood? An Uzi, maybe?”

“You watch too much television,” I said.

“Okay, fine. You aren't going to tell me but I know there is something going on with you,” she said, reading me in the way only Joey could. “I've just been thinking—I mean, if you've got some kind of terminal illness or Rob's got a hit out on you—you could take the time to formally document your intent to leave me your car and other worldly possessions once you're gone.”

“Fuck off, Joey,” I said, taking a quick detour into the boys' bathroom to avoid further conversation.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

I went out of my way to avoid Bridget at school. Pete didn't usually mention his sister and I never brought her up. Not that it kept me from thinking about her. By now I had a mental list of love songs that I would play her if (1) I still played guitar and (2) I was willing to pursue a relationship with Bridget. Which I wasn't. Because it could only end one way. As long as I didn't see her or talk to her, ours was a perfect love.

Two weeks before homecoming Dad left on a road trip—“going on tour,” he called it, which made it sound a lot more grand than what it really was. In reality it was four middle-aged guys who had never bothered to get a real job or invest regularly in haircuts. They would stay up late drinking every night, spending most of the money they earned on cheap hotels and cheaper women before they even made it back home. He left me some spending money, money that would still be sitting out on the kitchen counter when he got home, unless Joey helped herself to it.

It was while I was visiting Mr. Dunkelman, dropping off his weekly supply of junk food, that I saw more than a glimpse of Bridget for the first time in weeks. She was sitting in the rec room with her grandmother, who, Mr. Dunkelman had informed me, had recently been plotting her escape from the Nazi concentration camp where she was being held. Apparently, there was an underground tunnel that would provide the conduit for her escape. She had invited Mr. D to join her in her liberation.

“Concentration camp?” I asked. “She Jewish?”

“No, I think she just identifies with Jewish persecution mania,” Mr. D said absentmindedly as he dealt the cards.

I never visited Mr. D on Thursdays, Bridget's usual day with her grandmother. Today was Wednesday and I noticed as soon as I saw Bridget that there was something wrong. Usually her face was set naturally with the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, her eyes bright with a smile even if she wasn't showing any teeth. But not today.