Tales of the Madman Underground (45 page)

Schwinn looked shocked and confused. I think that happens because the shrink schoolteachers all did their therapy work, if they ever did it, back in the 1950s when no one outside of shrink school had ever even heard of the whole shrinkamatology routine, so they never had kids who knew what the game was. So the teachers at shrink school didn’t
tell
little bookaholic positive-attitude moron-girls like Leslie Schwinn, who probably got into psych because it was just such a
super
thing to be able to
help
people, that the clowns might already know what the ringmaster had in mind, and have other plans for the circus.

“I’m not going to forge my
records
,” Schwinn said, sounding really shocked for the first time. You could tell some prof she’d liked had told her the records were the most important thing.

This was a perfect moment. I’d recognized Bon’s tactics; good thing the Madmen had two sales people in the group, because Bon’s “are you gonna buy or should I walk” needed the walk-out close to complete it, and I knew how to do that one. “No one is asking you to forge the records,” I said, turning up the charm. “Look, you seem nice and all. We don’t want you to be in trouble. But we have a big mess to cope with, and we know how to handle it, and you’re coming in too late for this one. Just the way it goes. We need this time.

“So grab your pen. We’ve been through this with so many shrinks that we know all about first meetings, which is why Darla asked what kind of therapy you do. Now, if
you
let
us
get you through this first-day thing in like five minutes, so we can use the rest of the time to sort out the group emergency,
we
will
let you
just watch and listen while we solve our problems, and you will know a fuckload more than the average shrink knows about us at the end of the first month, I can tell you that.
And
have all your paperwork right.” Continuing to be a sales guy, I assumed the close and proceeded like she’d already signed. “Okay, then. Pencil ready, Doctor Schwinn? Now, everybody just spit it out, you know the basics she needs to get down on paper today, and
no bullshit
.” I made a point of glaring at Darla. “Doctor Schwinn needs us to keep our side of the deal.”

“Um, actually, um. I prefer that you call me Leslie—”

“Oh, you’re one of the nice informal ones!” Cheryl turned on a smile as fake as Schwinn’s. “Okay, Leslie, I’m Cheryl Taliaferro, I lose my temper and have crying fits and have trouble saying no to sex, and I’m an incest victim.” Schwinn’s pencil was moving; whether she wanted to or not, she was writing it down.

Squid said, “Ready? Okay, you got my name right, except everyone calls me Squid and I like that. I have depression and anger and I’ve done some binge drinking and I got some stuff on my rap sheet for fighting. My mom committed suicide, and my dad is remarried to a real bitch and he drinks and hits me.”

Bonny and Darla explained about being abandoned while their parents went off to do their silly things, and about having to keep their houses running, and Darla even mentioned that Logan had been taken away because she’d kept hurting him, which she usually saved to spring on a shrink when she thought it would upset them; it was in the files, but most of them were too lazy to read those. (Maybe Darla was just guessing that Schwinn, bright-eyed and fresh from grad school, would be the thorough type.)

Then Danny shocked us all by just opening right up: “My father’s a drunk who hates me.” He explained how his dad hit him, belittled him, made him do a lot of the work, and was letting the farm go all to shit, so that it was an even bet which would happen first, whether Danny would inherit it in horrible shape, or his father would lose it. “The plumbing hasn’t worked in the house for two years, which is why I play sports and take gym—showers every day—and I want to go to ag school but I figure without me working, Dad’ll just lose it while I’m away learning how to run it.” He finished in better shape than he usually did when he talked about this stuff, just wiping his face with his hands. This was way early for Danny; every year before he’d pretended that nothing was wrong until at least Christmastime, when the Holiday Hammer would fall on his house and his crying jags would become constant.

That left me, Paul, and Marti, and we all stared at each other for a long breath before I swallowed hard. “I’m Karl Shoemaker. Last night I was locked out, and so was Marti. I usually have plenty of cash, so I got us a room at a hotel, and we slept naked in the same bed because there was only one bed, and we didn’t want to put our dirty clothes back on. We didn’t touch each other except for like back rubs and hugs and friend stuff like that. We got caught, and our crazy mothers threw huge shit fits, and brought the cops into it, and now it’s all over the school. Now, Paul is Marti’s boyfriend, so he punched me out this morning, but he’s also my best friend so I’m cool about that, I understand that he had to do it.”

Schwinn, scribbling fast, asked, very reasonably, “Why did Paul have to do
that
?”

“Because I’m the biggest homo in the school,” Paul said, angrily. “At least everyone says I am. And my best friend Karl is a crazy dangerous son of a bitch that people are afraid of. So kids in this school are so stupid that they think that just because I had a fistfight with a scary guy, about a girl, that means I can’t be a queer, and that will probably help keep me from getting beaten up.”

“This
is
complicated,” Schwinn said, her face down in her notes and pencil flying. “And you’re Paul Knauss, of course. So then—”

“Well,” Marti said, “it’s even more complicated than that. Because, see, it’s a big deal to my mother whether or not I have a boyfriend, because as far as she’s concerned that is what high school is about, and I never did have one because I’m not exactly pretty. So now I have a boyfriend, which is a big deal, except everyone knows he’s gay, so now Mom is mad at me for having my first boyfriend be a homo. Plus as Karl says I’ve just been labeled a slut. And besides all that I have some problems.”

“Did, um, er.” Schwinn looked down at her pad and squirmed. “Did you
want
something to happen, Marti?”

Damn, you can’t trust anything. A shrink straight out of school and she asks the most embarrassing possible question.

Marti blushed purple and said, “Yeah, but Karl here is Sir Galahad. But the way he looked at me, it made me feel, I don’t know, like, beautiful.” She was studying her sneaker really hard.

Bonny chuckled. “This is so
typical
, Karl.”

I could see the headline in
Stars and Stripes
already: MASTER SERGEANT RETIRES AFTER 30 YEARS, STILL A VIRGIN.

Paul was wrapped up in a tight little ball, arms around himself, and I knew he was furious. “So you’d rather be with Karl,” Paul said. “But you’ll go out with the fag so he doesn’t get beat up?”

The room got real cold and quiet.

“Aw, shit,” Squid said, which was about the smartest thing I’d heard all day.

Then Schwinn said, “Right
on
, Squid. I was just thinking that.”

We all laughed, even Paul, though I could sure tell he was still sore. Then we started figuring out what to do, which basically came down to three things:

“And,” Danny said, “Squid and I can probably sit on some of the jock humor about the subject. Like two percent of it. But it’ll blow over as soon as something else happens, and, guys, it’s high school. There’ll be somebody new to pick on by tomorrow morning.”

Schwinn took her notes while we worked all that out, and when we’d finished, she scanned over the three pages on her pad, and shook her head. “This is
so
like the group I was in, in high school, and then another therapy group I was in, in college.” She let us go a little early.

“I kind of hope she sticks for the whole year,” I admitted to Danny, Cheryl, and Marti.

“Yeah,” Danny said as we all walked to trig together. “An ex-Madman herself. Hunh.”

“I have a horrible feeling that when we did the run-around on her, at the start, she was trying not to laugh,” Cheryl said.

Darla ran up and stopped in front of me and said, “Mister Babbitt needs to talk to Mister Shoemaker.”

“Later,” Cheryl said, and she, Marti, and Danny shot out of sight, not quite fast enough for me to miss all the smirking.

Darla grabbed my shirt, held up Mister Babbitt, and said, “Mister Babbitt would like to know if what Marti said about you was the truth?”

I held up my hand in the Cub Scout sign. “Wall to wall and ten feet tall. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. And I’d rather talk to you than to a stuffed rabbit.”

She held Mister Babbitt up to her ear, then in front of herself. “Because, Mister Babbitt, you silly little bunny, I have to be sure that what we have here is a goddam prince of a guy like I think we do. A guy who would give a girl a place to sleep, just because she was a friend, and not try to get anything from her, and never ever brag, or even suggest, to other guys, that she did something that she didn’t, might be a real cool guy. He might be so cool that even though he is not up to our usual standards, Mister Babbitt, by which I mean he does not have a motorcycle, a portfolio of disturbing art, or a prison record, I might want to see more of him.” She dropped her voice so only I heard. “Even if he won’t kill cats. Especially if he won’t because he won’t hurt a friend.” She stepped back, planted her hands on her hips, pulled her elbows back a bit to improve my view, and said, “So I was just explaining to Mister Babbitt that I might want to see what it’s like to go out with a goddam prince of a guy, even if he is still in high school and grounded until the year two thousand.

“But. But. But. As Gratz might say.

“Suppose it turned out the goddam prince of a guy actually
lied
about what happened, and either messed with a girl when she had nowhere else to go, or is just waiting to start hinting to the other guys that she put out for him. Now, Mister Babbitt,
that
would be a different matter. A guy like that has probably touched his last boob, because I would take his hands off at the neck, along with a trophy for my first apartment’s mantel, which will look very much like a mushroom floating in an olive jar full of rubbing alcohol.

“So last chance for complete truth here, Karl. The thingie you save may be your own, unless I decide to take it.” She took a slow step toward me with a hair flip that put blonde hair down around her face in a way that was so sexy I figured she’d probably spent weeks practicing it. Softly, she said, “Did you and Marti tell the truth in therapy group?”

“Yes, Darla, I—
mrmph
.”

Kissing in the halls was a one-full-demerit offense which was really unfair, because if an ordinary kiss was one, what Darla did should have been like eight. Right in front of Mrs. Greimiladi, the Latin teacher, who had probably been Poster Bitch of 1925 for the National Pickle Up The Butt Association.

She shouted “Stop that this instant!” and “That’s a demerit for each of you!” and finally pushed us apart, huffing out “Well, I never!”

“Well, you should try,” Darla said, “it’s great,” and went slinking away.

“I know who you are, Darla Pilsudski! I’m writing you up!”

“Just so she spells our name right, Mister Babbitt,” Darla said, turning, flipping her hair, and rolling her hips as she strutted away. She blew me a kiss before she vanished around the corner. Greimiladi stared at me like I was a newly arrived Martian.

Something touched my elbow. I turned and saw Cheryl grinning like a fucking moron; Marti was pretty much limp with giggles, hanging on Danny. “Hey,” Cheryl said. “For some reason I was just thinking about something in bio class. Before she mates with him, the female praying mantis eats the male’s head. What do you think?”

It was one of those moments when, “Yeah, well,” comes in handy.

BY NOON EVERYONE had heard that I had spent a night with Marti in a hotel room and when the cops came by, with our mothers, I had asked for time to get dressed. It was also all over the school that I had deliberately provoked Gratz and lived to tell of it, and that Paul had knocked me flat. And on top of that, that Spooky Darla had given me a thermonuclear kiss in public.

No getting away from it: I was now Public Madman Number One.

At least nobody had said anything about Cheryl by the tar ponds, naked Darla down by the creek, or hugging Paul on a street corner. Maybe Stacy had laryngitis.

Paul ate outside again, but Larry seemed to be very pleased to sit with me; he explained
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch
to me twice and I still had no idea what he was talking about, but it was clear we were in-tight friends again, even though I didn’t want to go to Detroit and lose my virginity to a fat girl.

Just after lunch, Harris and Tierden stopped me in the hall to tell me I wasn’t so tough and I wasn’t so special and that they were gonna have to teach me a lesson and I wouldn’t be protected by old man Browning forever, and I better watch my ass and they’d get me even if I did, and stuff, but that was a pretty one-sided conversation, and it got broken up when Mrs. Hertz noticed them hassling me and walked over to see what was going on. I told her “nothing” as those two stood behind her giving me the finger, and while I was talking to her, I gave Harris such a big smile, and focused my eyes on his crotch so much, that he moved over to hide behind Tierden. There was going to be a lot of bragging about which one of them had really scared me most, I figured, in that big heap of a car tonight.