Okay, Kevin, think. What were the options again? Something about graffiti (oh God, no), and … and … I’m about to ask Brandon to repeat the list when I remember the Book of Busts. Now, that I can handle. After all, tons of people have been busted—big time—at Brookbank High this year. Like that freshman who got an essay published in Seventeen magazine before they realized it was plagiarized. Or the two juniors who got caught trying to shoplift a pair of Manolo Blahniks, then threatened to sue the store when they discovered they were knockoffs. Or the guy who broke his thermometer in chem lab just to get the school evacuated while the hazmat team cleared up the mercury.
“Yo, Earth to Mopsely. What’s it going to be?” yawns Brandon.
I swallow hard. “Um, maybe the Book of Busts.”
More laughter.
“Get real, Mopsely,” explodes Zach. “Like Brandon’s gonna let you anywhere near the Book of Busts!”
Brandon looks up sharply. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the interruption. “Why shouldn’t I, Zach?”
“Because I’m compiling the book. Remember? It’s mine.”
“I think that’s up to me. Or are you in charge now?”
Zach blanches. “But Kevin’s a dork. He probably doesn’t even know what the Book of Busts is.”
“Or maybe he’s not a dork,” counters Brandon, like he’s forgotten I’m sitting two feet away from him. “And maybe he does know about the book.”
“Bullshit.”
Suddenly, there’s total silence. Brandon remains completely, eerily still, staring at Zach unblinkingly. I feel caught in the middle of a battle of wills, and neither side appears to be backing down.
Brandon takes a deep breath and claps a hand on my shoulder. “The Book of Busts is a calling, Mopsely. Do you get what I’m saying?” I nod, although I truly have no idea what he’s talking about. “Generations of Brookbank seniors have compiled the book. It’s a serious business. Zach doesn’t think you’re up to it. What do you think?”
I can feel every pair of eyes boring into me. They all know I’m a fraud. I know I’m a fraud. Now I just want to get out of this unscathed.
“S-Sure, Brandon. I’m up to it.”
Brandon narrows his eyes and leans over the table. “Yeah? Zach doesn’t think so. So how about you tell him where you plan to start?”
I know this is make-or-break time. Either I say something smart and get to walk away with my dignity, or I fail miserably and enter the FBI Witness Protection Program.
“I, er … ” I stall for time, mentally filing through Brookbank’s catalog of busts. And then it hits me: “I’d start with Taz Green and Erica Roberts,” I blurt out. “I mean, that’s got to be the biggest bust.”
There’s a moment’s pause, but suddenly Brandon is smiling and smacking me on the back playfully. And then most of the rest of the guys start laughing and whooping too.
“Shit,” Brandon exclaims, like it’s the ultimate compliment. “I have to admit it, Mopsely, you’re dead on … that is the biggest bust, probably in school history. What do you say now, Zach? You still think Kev’s a dork?”
Zach curls his upper lip and flashes a tortured smile, his bright white teeth like a neat row of tombstones.
I can’t help thinking that Taz and Erica’s breakup is probably not the biggest bust in school history. But as it involved some suspect pot and an inflatable doll, it certainly scores high on shock value. In any case, I’m too relieved to disagree.
“So, Mopsely … I mean, Kev,” continues Brandon earnestly, “I want you to know we’re all here for you, okay? Like you say, you’re going to want to start with Taz, ’cause he’s the only one who dated Erica. I reckon he’ll be more than willing to spill the beans—”
I’m nodding furiously, but after the way Taz got caught, I figure he’ll be the last person to talk.
“—And then you’ll need to talk to all the guys here, see what they can come up with for you, you know?” Brandon pauses, so I automatically nod. “But there’ll still be gaps, and you’re really going to have to use some ingenuity.” Another pause. Another nod. “What I’m saying is, it’s a lot of work. We’ll be meeting every week—twice a week if we have to— so you’ve got be committed. You are committed, right?”
I gaze longingly at the door. “Um, yeah.”
Brandon stares Zach down triumphantly, then smacks my back again. “Wow, and to think, all this time I thought you were a total loser.” He sweeps his arm across his body as though preaching to everyone present. “But you’ve shown us we need to be open-minded … Turns out, not every guy who plays the flute is a complete fag.”
It’s as close to a compliment as I’ve ever heard from Brandon, and even though I feel like I’ve just been adopted as the group’s geeky mascot, I can’t suppress a smile. I’m going get through this after all.
Now all the guys except Zach are cheering and stamping again, and with my fears temporarily assuaged, I bob my head in time with their rhythmic clapping. The room hums with energy as Brandon reaches into his bag and presents me with a folder emblazoned with the words “Book of Busts.”
“For the record,” he whispers conspiratorially, confident that everyone is listening, “I’ll take care of Morgan Giddes. Word is, the chick’s a virgin, so she might need some special attention.”
While Brandon silences the applause that follows his every announcement, I can’t help wondering what happened to Tiffany. But as no one else seems to be concerned with this particular detail, I figure there must be an explanation.
“In the meantime,” continues Brandon, “you can start with the measurements of that girl you hang out with … Abby, right? You must have had her a few times by now.”
I want to believe I misheard him—but I know I heard him perfectly. My head stops bobbing and I begin hyperventilating. I feel like I’m about to pass out, but since that won’t do much for my new reputation, I bury my head in the folder instead.
There’s not much inside—just a few pages reproducing the senior portraits of every girl in the class. And below each photo are spaces for her measurements: bust, waist, hips.
Bust, waist, hips.
Bust. Waist. Hips.
Oh crap. The Book of Busts, in which are recorded the bust, waist, and hip sizes of every senior girl …
I know I’m burning a peculiar shade of red right now, but I can’t help it. My body’s wired on adrenaline, my brain’s popping like static. One moment I’m calculating the distance to the door in case I decide to make a break for it, the next I’m considering if it’s too late to transfer schools. I try to refocus by turning away from the cheering throngs and staring out the window that overlooks the main corridor.
As the guys serenade me with one last round of applause for not being the ignorant dork I actually am, Principal Jefferies passes along the corridor with Ms. Kowalski. Hearing the cheers, they stop to peer through the little window in the door, watching in surprise as I’m welcomed into Brandon’s hip fraternity.
Jefferies nods approvingly, in stark contrast to Ms. Kowalski—who shakes her head disappointedly and quickly strides away.
5
As fate would have it, English with Ms. Kowalski is my first class after lunch. I hope that the past ten minutes have been enough time for her to suffer comprehensive short-term amnesia.
Ms. Kowalski stands behind her desk, methodically scanning the class as it settles down like she’s weighing each student’s worth. It’s a study of extremes, that’s for sure. In this particular group, the brightest and the stupidest members of the senior class coexist in a state of barely concealed disdain, united only in their utter contempt for me. Which is why it’s just as well Ms. K is always on my side. At least, she usually is, but I keep waiting for her to make eye contact with me and she never does. I sense my foray into Brandon’s World is about to prove co
stly to my grade.
“Do you all know about the Graduation Rituals?” she finally asks, fiddling nervously with her bangs.
“Of course,” says Morgan Giddes cheerily. “It’s where the boys write graffiti in the girls’ bathroom stalls, and where the girls get to tell the boys their measurements. Stuff like that.”
Most of the class is nodding in agreement, as though this is as obvious and well-known as school being boring and teachers being uncool.
“And how does that make you feel?” continues Ms. K.
“It makes me feel good,” shouts Ryan Morton from the back row. “I mean, real good—”
“Yes, I’m sure it does, Ryan, but there’s really no need to shout in class.”
“Was I?” Ryan furrows his unibrow, then studies his lap. “Oh crap, I forgot to turn my iPod down. Sorry.”
Ms. K shifts her weight back and forth. I imagine she’s wondering if the pleasure of disciplining Ryan is adequate compensation for sacrificing an entire class period; she obviously decides that it’s not. “What about you, girls? How do these Graduation Rituals make you feel?”
Paige Tramell raises her hand daintily. “I guess it kind of depends on whether you’re pretty and popular. Like, what are they going to write about me on the stalls, right? And why would I care about revealing photographs?”
Ms. K is getting depressed—I know the signs.
“I mean, like, I’m comfortable with how I look,” Paige continues earnestly. “I exfoliate and moisturize twice a day, so I guess I’m going to be okay no matter what kind of photos they take, you know?”
Ms. K blinks slowly, like she’s half-expecting that someone as shallow as Paige might not really exist. But when she opens her eyes, Paige is still there, patiently awaiting a response. Ms. K swallows hard. “Doesn’t it bother any of you to see women—because that’s what you are now—objectified like that?”
I look around and quickly work out that no one but me knows what she means. Ms. K has worked it out too.
“What I’m trying to say is, aren’t you offended by the idea of judging women only according to their looks?”
Morgan sighs and turns in her seat so that she’s addressing the whole class. “I think what Ms. Kowalski is trying to say is, doesn’t it upset you all to be misrepresented?”
Ms. K nods enthusiastically. She smiles beatifically at her kindred spirit, and Morgan smiles back, adding, “’Cause I know I’d be pissed as hell if they said I was anything less than a C cup.”
Ms. Kowalski is still smiling, but then her face catches up with her brain and she shakes her head violently from side to side.
“No, no, no. You’ve totally misunderstood me. It’s not about cup size, and it shouldn’t be about looks, either.”
Paige reenters the fray. “Guys, what she’s saying is that the whole system’s unfair.” Ms. K sighs in relief. “Like, it’s all fine and dandy for those of us who are cute and popular and all, but what about ugly girls? It must completely suck for them.”
Ms. K wrings her hands, but she has evidently given up trying to make her point. In a way, I feel bad for her. She’s not even thirty yet, but I can see the idealism that drove her into teaching trickling away every time one of us opens our mouths.
As a last resort, Ms. K glances my way, which is what she does whenever she needs me to explain what she’s talking about. But just as quickly, she shakes her head and looks away. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I can’t help feeling kind of hurt. Because in spite of what she thinks, belonging to Brandon’s cohort does not suddenly make me a bad person.
Besides, if the Book of Busts is so offensive, then how come it doesn’t bother Paige and Morgan? They seem keen to contribute in any way they can, and I can think of lots of ways they can help me out, both theoretically and practically.
Ms. K shakes her head at me again as I leave the class, but this time I just ignore her.
6
I’m the last to arrive at our quartet rehearsal. Abby’s sitting on a stool almost completely hidden by her double bass, and she’s practicing a tricky pizzicato passage in the music. It occurs to me that if she’d taken up the cello instead of the bass she might look sexier. She could drape herself over it and wrap her arms around it caressingly.
I cast the image aside as I pull out my flute and fit the pieces together. The rest of the quartet is already set up: Caitlin on drums, Nathan on guitar. Abby bows an A, and Nathan and I tune up while Caitlin pretends to tune her snare drum, which always makes us laugh even though she’s been doing it for three years now.
Nathan’s latest arrangements are perched on my music stand: some “classic” (i.e., old) pop music; some jazz “standards” (i.e., elevator muzak). It’s all kind of corny, but a welcome change from the showpieces I had to learn for last month’s instrumental scholarship audition at Brookbank University.
With the slightest nod of my head, I kick-start the first piece. And even though we’re sight-reading, the ensemble is tight and the sound crackles with energy. As we draw to a close with a room-rattling crescendo, I can tell from their movements and facial expressions that Abby, Nathan, and Caitlin know we’re jamming too. We’re sharing a moment, and to be honest, it’s pretty cool.
An hour later we take a break, and Caitlin and Nathan step outside. They’re the ultimate proof that opposites attract. She’s waif-like, wears colored contacts, and claims to be the world’s first and only Goth-in-red-clothing (because she’s allergic to black clothes dye). He’s fat, wears thick glasses, and parts his hair carefully to one side; in my less charitable moments I’ve wondered if he was put on the earth to reassure me that I could be even dorkier than I am. As couples go, Caitlin and Nathan are an enigma, pretty much keeping to themselves whenever we’re not rehearsing.
“Where were you at lunch?” Abby asks, laying her double bass gently on its side. “I didn’t see you.”
I only hesitate for a second. “Finishing some homework. It was due this afternoon.”
“Oh.” She grabs a couple bottles of water from her book bag and tosses one to me. “That’s good to hear. Nathan said you might be at Brandon’s meeting, but I figured he must be joking. No way would you join in with that stuff.”
I wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on, but she takes a big swig and smiles warmly.
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” she continues. “You’re way too cool for them.” I honestly think she believes it too.
Nathan and Caitlin are coming back into the room when they pause for a brief kiss. As usual, it morphs into a substantial time-out involving hair pulling and tongues. I can feel myself turning red so I look away, but Abby just laughs.
“Do you think Caitlin would be pleased or offended if I said they’re a cute couple?” she whispers.
“I’m not sure ‘cute’ is the word.”
“Of course it is. They’re totally in love and they can’t get enough of each other. What could be cuter than that?”
“But they look kind of weird together, don’t you think?”
Abby picks up her bass. “What’s that got to do with whether or not they’re a cute couple?”
“I just think of cute couples as being attractive, that’s all.”
“Like who?” she says, tuning the lowest string.
“Well, like Brandon Trent and Morgan Giddes.”
Abby’s hands stop moving and she casts me a penetrating stare. “I didn’t know they were dating. Who told you that?”
Oh crap. I’m about to tell her they’re not dating—at least, not yet—but figure that will make things even worse. “It’s just an example,” I say.
“Well, I don’t much like your example. And anyway, what’s with your Brandon fetish these days?”
“I do not have a Brandon fetish!”
I pretend to be engross
ed in cleaning the spit from my flute. A moment later Caitlin and Nathan rejoin us, and I escape further interrogation.
We tackle another arrangement and the sound is as crisp as before. But I can’t stop dwelling on what Abby just said. What will she think of me when she discovers that I’m hanging out with Brandon? For that matter, what will Brandon and the other guys think when they realize that I’m playing pop song arrangements with some of the least cool people ever to set foot in Brookbank High?
And then it hits me: I just won’t tell them. The Book of Busts can be my connection to the coolest guys and girls in school, and the quartet can be the secret hobby that keeps me on good terms with my real friends. Everybody wins.
At the end of the set, Abby pulls out one more arrangement and deposits it silently on our music stands. I glance at the title and do a double take: “California Dreamin’.”
“Since this is our last semester together,” Abby says, grinning, “I figured it was time we showcased our award-winning flutist.”
Nathan and Caitlin cheer. I’m speechless.
“Now, I know you’re a perfectionist, Kev,” says Abby in a pretend-scolding tone, “but I had to transpose it to a different key so you could play the low notes. The original version was for alto flute.”
“I know, I know. Bud Shank played it,” I say, still overwhelmed by Abby’s gesture. “But he was really an alto saxophonist.”
“You mean, an alto sax player took the best flute solo in pop music history?” exclaims Abby in mock outrage.
I ignore her sarcasm. “Yeah. How unfair is that? Like sax players don’t have enough cool solos of their own already.” I can almost feel myself reaching for an imaginary soapbox. “And here’s another thing, the solo on—”
“Hey, Kevin,” Caitlin interrupts, smiling, “you know we share your desire to rid the world of the pernicious and divisive effects of flutophobia, but we’ve only got fifteen minutes left.”