“No, not him. Like Kayla says, he’s a complete tool, and he’s pretty freakin’ weird, and his name—”
“He’s not weird, and he’s not a tool,” shouts Abby suddenly, interrupting Zach before he can say my name.
Thank you, Abby. Thank you.
“Oh, whatever,” drones Zach. “Just ’cause you want him doesn’t mean he’s not a loser. Just ask any of the girls who went out on dates with Ke—”
“He’s a really decent guy if you’d only bother to see past this stupid book,” Abby practically screams, drowning out Zach’s voice. “It’s tearing us apart, all of us. This isn’t just about one boy, it’s about all the boys who join in these pathetic Graduation Rituals … including Zach.”
She’s staring at him with a blinding intensity, daring him to utter another word. I know that stare, and so I know why Zach’s having second thoughts about saying my name. Right now, I love Abby with all my heart.
“But I’m not compiling it,” complains Zach, then hesitates as Abby unleashes another withering look. He takes a deep breath. “Kevin Mopsely is.”
At once, I feel cold and nauseous. Mom seems frozen to the spot, jaw hanging open and shoulders slumped. Across the room from her, Zach smiles broadly, looking around like he’s expecting congratulations for having outed me. I don’t know how he knows we’re related, but I never did get around to checking the Web page for Mom’s class. Maybe Zach was a little more disciplined, a little more motivated—he always said he was onto me. I guess he decided now was the time to bring my world crashing down.
Mom doesn’t say anything for almost a minute, so some of the girls begin asking her if she’s okay.
“She’s okay,” says Abby, wiping away a stray tear. “She just needs a moment, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” mutters Zach. “She’s just discovered her son is compiling the Book of Busts—”
And suddenly the room is filled with shouting and crying and I know I have to walk in and take the heat. I have to face my mom. I have to stand at the front of the class like a man and let GRRLS hurl insults at me. It’s no more than I deserve.
I place my hand firmly on the door handle, press down—then sprint straight out of the school.
30
On the way home I formulate a plan, which doesn’t take long as there’s only one course of action left: I need to hand over the Book of Busts to someone else in such a way that the guys won’t hate me or beat the crap out of me. Right now I’m running low on the popularity meter—I’ve lost my quartet friends, and it’s pretty clear that all the senior girls hate me—and I’m counting on the guys to make sure I reach graduation with all my limbs intact. After all, there may be multiple groups currently planning retribution.
When I get home, I lock myself in my room and wait for Mom. I figure I’ll know when she arrives because she’ll try to break my door down.
An hour passes, then two. Eventually I hear the front door click open downstairs and Matt the Mutt greets Mom like she’s the center of the universe—which, at least for the dog, she probably is.
I wait for her to climb the stairs, but she doesn’t. I wait for her to scream, but she doesn’t. There’s not a sound down there. It’s the quietest our house has ever been.
I let another five minutes go by, but by then I can’t bear the suspense any longer. I want to get this over with. There’s no way to avoid it, so the best thing is if she just reams me, grounds me, tells me I’m evil and disowns or castrates me, exactly as Abby predicted.
I tiptoe down the stairs and peek into the kitchen, and the living room, and the study. She’s not there. And then I notice that her bedroom door is closed, so I creep over and knock as gently as I can.
There’s no answer, but I detect the faintest hint of moaning from the other side, so I knock again. Still nothing, but I open the door anyway.
She’s sitting against the wall, hugging her knees like she’s twelve years old. I think I’ve heard her say that developmental regression is sometimes a result of an emotionally devastating event, which I guess puts the blame firmly on me.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Why why why why why why—”
“Mo-om?”
Her mouth continues to open and close, but she’s stuck on why like a damaged CD.
I take a tentative step toward her, then another. “Mom, I’m really sorry.”
She sighs. “Where did I go wrong? What was it I failed to do? . . . failed to explain?”
“Nothing. You didn’t fail at all.”
“Why were you at Hooters?”
Hooters? Oh, the credit card statement must have come. Crap.
“That was when I was with Dad.”
“What were you and your father doing at Hooters?”
I should tell her the truth—Dad was getting hammered and ogling the waitresses—but I think it would break her heart, so I don’t say a word.
A moment later she’s crying, and although Dad used to have her in tears at least once a month, it’s the first time in my life I’ve been responsible. And I don’t feel glib or defiant or even defensive anymore. I just feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. I just wanted to be popular for a change.”
“Popular with whom? I mean, it doesn’t seem like you’re popular with the girls in my class.”
“No. It hasn’t exactly worked out like I planned.”
“You planned this?” A fresh dose of crying ensues, and she peers up at me through the curtain of tears. “Who are you?”
“I’m me. Kevin.”
“No, you can’t be. My Kevin would never do something so hurtful.” She closes her eyes. “I think you should go stay with your father this weekend. I can’t have you around right now.”
I crouch down beside her. “I don’t think he’s going to be very helpful, Mom. I really don’t want to go—”
“I don’t care. I need you out of here, and I think that spending some time with your father will help.”
The idea is so stupid that I snort, hoping she’ll take offense and have it out with me right here, right now. But she doesn’t bite. She just remains crumpled against the wall, gently rocking back and forth.
“There’s money in the drawer. Call your father, then call a cab. I expect you gone in half an hour. If you can’t figure things out by talking to him, then don’t bother coming back.”
She doesn’t look up, so after a few more seconds of silence I prepare to leave. I can’t believe it, but Abby was right: Mom’s disowned me. Then again, so has Abby, and Morgan and Taylor and Kayla and Jessica, and Nathan and probably even Caitlin. And I’m still not clear on how everything got so incredibly messed up.
I pause at the doorway and listen to the awful sobbing that became the soundtrack of our lives after Dad left. Mom cried for so long I began to wonder if she’d ever stop. But these last few weeks, since she started teaching at Brookbank High, there haven’t been any tears. She’s even begun to resemble that bohemian scholar in the photo upstairs: determined, energetic, content. My insanely dysfunctional high school—the bane of my existence—gave her a taste of happiness, of fulfillment. And she really did make a difference. Had I undone everything?
I look over my shoulder, but I can’t bear to make eye contact. “Mom, I know I don’t deserve it, but would you apologize to your class for me? I mean, for everything I’ve done.”
She shakes her head. “No, Kevin, I won’t … They took a vote. They don’t want me to come back.”
31
Dad’s not exactly thrilled to see me. He pretends to be engrossed in an NBA playoff game when I arrive, and as soon as it ends he channel surfs until he finds another game that’s just starting.
“Dad, can we talk?”
He sighs and grabs a beer from the crate beside the sofa.
The crate’s full, so I guess he just keeps replenishing the supply whenever it dwindles. He cracks open the beer and hands it to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t want any tonight.”
Dad looks hurt. “It was good enough for you last time.”
“I know. I just … need to think straight.”
“I see. So you’re saying that because I drink beer, I don’t think straight, is that it?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. I just need to keep a clear head. I’ve had a crappy week, okay?”
“Okay.” Dad finally switches off the TV and turns to face me. “So what’s the problem?”
“Remember I said I’d been on a couple of dates?” Dad nods and a trickle of beer oozes out of the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, I went on a couple more, also with different girls—”
“Hell yeah!” He’s suddenly pumped up. “My son the player.” He proffers his fist, inviting me to bash knuckles in a Brandonesque gesture of affection. He doesn’t seem to notice my halfhearted response.
“Yeah, but … I mean, the point is I wasn’t exactly interested in a relationship. I think I … well, I just wanted to hook up with them because, you know, they’re popular and cute.”
“That’s great. You’re totally following the advice I gave you last time—just hook up with the hot ones and move on.”
He’s right about one thing—this is the same stuff he said before, and back then it felt liberating to be able to open up, to feel unjudged and wholly supported. Only now it doesn’t, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m sober.
“No, Dad. I don’t think you’re getting it.” I sit up straighter, which is hard because the sofa is soft and mushy. “The point is … well, what I’m trying to say is I, you know, used those girls.” I take a deep breath. “See, it’s all because of the Book of Busts, the thing that I was supposed to compile this year for the Rituals.”
Dad looks confused.
“The Book of Busts is this book where we write down the measurements of all the girls in the senior class.”
Dad resumes his proud-parent-of-an-honor-student expression.
“And, well, the thing is, some of the sexiest girls went out on dates with me just so they could fake their numbers.”
“Uh-huh,” Dad grunts, completely unmoved by my confession.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, they weren’t interested in me—they were just interested in, you know, inflating their bust size. And even though I suppose I kind of knew deep down they didn’t exactly, um … like me, I hooked up with them anyway just ’cause they’re hot. See? I used them, and they used me.”
“So everybody used everybody else,” summarizes Dad approvingly. “Sounds like you all got what you wanted.”
“B-But that’s not the point, is it?”
Dad sighs and stares off into space. He’s clearly getting bored. “Then why don’t you tell me what the point is, Kevin.”
“The point is … well, the point is that while I was fixated on getting to second base, they were hating me for it. I even messed things up with Abby … the one girl who liked me for who I am, and I had to go check out her bra size like it mattered somehow.”
“Hey, don’t underestimate tits, son. Tits are important.”
“What?”
“Just kidding.” Dad snorts and slaps his thigh. “But you really need to stop making such a big deal of all this. No harm, no foul, you know?”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. It’s like we’ve undergone a weird role reversal, with me as responsible middle-aged father and Dad as sex-starved teenage son.
“Have you been listening? What I did was wrong, don’t you see that?”
He clearly hasn’t seen that.
“Dad, I even went out with one girl who had just stopped dating a guy I know. I mean, it’s not exactly like I’m friends with the guy, but I wasn’t even sure they had stopped dating. And that made me want her even more. You have to admit, that’s messed up.”
Dad’s smiling broadly, like we’re finally discussing a subject on which he can offer real guidance. “You’re just analyzing this too much. It’s not that complicated. If you want something, and she wants something, then just do it.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re eighteen now, Kevin. You’re an adult. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell they want. Period. And if other people don’t like it, they can go screw themselves.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you just be serious for once?”
He frowns. “I am being serious.”
I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “You’re kidding, right?” I wait again. “You have to be kidding.” Okay, so he’s not kidding. “I said I was kind of hoping this girl was still involved with the guy—that it would make me want her even more. Are you even listening to me? I’m saying I liked the thought of helping her cheat on him. What does that make me?”
“It makes you human,” he sighs. “It makes you a guy. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say … I don’t know what I want you to say! That I’m an asshole or something. I want you to say you have the first clue what I’m talking about … that I was wrong to go after someone who’s already involved in another relationship—”
“You mean, like I did?”
I actually wasn’t thinking about him, so I hesitate before answering. “Well, yeah, I guess you did.”
Dad downs the rest of his beer. “So that’s what all this is about, huh? That’s why you’re here. You want me to apologize.”
“No, this isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
“Is it really, Kevin? Seems as if this is absolutely about me. The way you’ve come here tonight even though I’m really busy, didn’t give me any choice in the matter, all so you can start lecturing me about infidelity.” Dad crushes his empty can in a threateningly masculine way. “Must be nice to see things in black and white, but it’s not always that simple.”
I can’t believe he’s managed to turn this around so it’s about him. Suddenly all the thoughts I’ve concealed for the past eight months come bubbling to the surface, and I don’t feel like sparing his feelings anymore.
“I did not come here to lecture you. But now that you mention it, I do think infidelity is pretty black and white, actually. I mean, you either decide to make it happen or you decide not to make it happen, right? No one forced you to shack up with Kimberly.”
Dad just shakes his head like I’m too naive to know any better. “Geez, you’re just like your mom … always were.”
“Right now, that sounds a whole lot better than the alternative.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I was sick of being judged, sick of apologizing for the way I felt. And after twenty-some years I’d had enough of listening to her spout that feminist crap all the time.”
“She was doing that when you met. If you found it so repulsive, why didn’t you say something about it then? If you ask me, you’re just looking for an excuse to justify the fact that you’re an even bigger asshole than me.”
To my surprise, Dad just laughs. “You’re losers, both of you.”
“Us? You think we’re losers?” I can feel my hands clenching into fists, heart pounding like I’m running for my life. “When did you figure that out, huh? While you were getting hammered? Or while you were watching TV in this shithole of an apartment? No, Dad, you’re the loser … And you know what? I think you know it too.”
“Don’t pretend you’re any different—”
“But I am different. Thirty years from now I won’t be living like this. And I won’t be getting my kicks at Hooters, either … dropping fifty bucks to ogle waitresses who are too polite to admit you gro
ss them out.”
I can tell he wants to hit me really badly, but he doesn’t. He just gets up off the sofa and walks over to the front door, then opens it so I can leave. Dismissed by both parents in the same evening—what are the chances?
I look at him as I walk through the door, noticing, more than ever before, the deep wrinkles on his forehead and the poorly dyed black hair combed across his bald patch. He’s trying to look intimidating, but he’s so pudgy around the edges that the impression falls flat. I might be wrong, but his defiance seems desperate … like I’ve just held up a mirror to the reality of his existence, and he can’t bear to face the reflection.
32
I’ve got enough money left to take a taxi home, but I need to walk. It takes me over three hours, through parts of town I wouldn’t normally cross, but it gives me time to think. And even though it’s chilly, I feel fine. As each mile passes, I sense the distance between my dad and me growing. It feels good. It feels cathartic.
I think about Natasha in fifth grade, the way she couldn’t look me in the eye when she asked me to teach her the flute. I’ve never thought about this before, but it was clearly a big deal for her to ask, and I made a joke out of it. I said what Brandon would say, only I’m not Brandon. I’ve never been Brandon. I never will be Brandon. And that’s a good thing.
And then there’s Abby. I can still picture her lying beside me on the bed, her head resting against the palm of her hand. She was topless, but there was no hint of embarrassment because she was with me, and she loved me. I remember her smile, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair, and the way she held me like I was the only person in the universe who mattered.
I try to impose a different ending on the evening, but the fact remains—I looked at her bra. I didn’t have to. There was no reason to. But I did. Why? I’d never been interested in her bra size before, and I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have added it to the book even if she hadn’t caught me. I just did it because … well, because I could. Because I felt entitled to. Something so personal, so emotionally charged, yet I acted like it was my business, my right to see into every aspect of her life, to claim every part of her … whether she wanted me to or not.