Beest

36C, me, 36C.  I keep my eyes down and change into my regular clothes as quickly as possible.  Sandwiched between two tall, lush juniors, I look like a spatula with good hair. I try not to let my stick figure bother me too much.  When I was thirteen, I let it bother me, and I squandered a pretty good year railing at genetics and contemplating padded bras.  Now I wish I could have that year back.  It was my best so far.  The scorecard of my teenaged life would read like this:

Thirteen: First boyfriend.  First kiss.  Junior editor of the school newspaper.  No breasts. Final Score: “9.5“

Fourteen: No boyfriend.  First ex-boyfriend.  Reporter for the school newspaper. No breasts. Final Score: “6”

Fifteen: No boyfriend. High School too terrifying to even contemplate working for the school paper.  Breasts make a belated and unremarkable appearance: too little too late.  Final Score: “0.5”

Sixteen: New, less scary school.  Everything else - status quo.  (no Final Score yet but I think this year might be the start of an upward trend)



Not that I’m keeping track.



I exit the girl's locker room feeling good.  It is not the natural high that comes from rigorous exercise. This week we are playing volleyball in P.E. and I suck at volleyball.  Stepping out of the way so other girls can hit the ball is not particularly rigorous - even for me.  So it isn't endorphins - I’m just glad that P.E. is over with for the day.  So is Spanish Class, Science and Algebra.  The rest of the day is a coast downhill.  I have to go to a Reading Club meeting during lunch today, but that’s a minor blip. 

My old school, Lewis and Clark High in Spokane Washington, was huge compared to Wilbur High.  Merging into the hallways between classes was like being swallowed by a riot: an unpredictable, vaguely malicious riot.  There I carried all my books with me and kept my locker visits down to a bare minimum.  I kept my elbows tucked in and my head tucked down.  It wasn’t like I was in danger of being mugged or anything.  But at Lewis and Clark there was a veneer thin line between complete anonymity and absolute misery.  You didn’t want to be the guy who accidentally spilled coke on Jeff Corbin’s girlfriend’s brand new pink sweater, and you didn’t want to be the girl who happened to be laughing nearby when the sweater defacing occurred.  You wanted to be the girl already safely in her seat in history class where blank smiles or meaningless glances could not implicate you. 

It’s different here.  For one thing, the main hallway at Wilbur High School is never teaming.  With a student population of just over three hundred, there aren’t enough students to effectively team.  There’s breathing room.

I weave easily around a clump of boys wearing letterman jackets.  Two of them are arguing about football, or basketball, or some other sport that involves a ball.  They throw their long arms about wildly in a manner that would have caused an injury at my old school.  Most of the group follows the argument with bored expressions on their faces.  One of them, Michael Brown, is watching me.  He nods in my direction.  I avert my eyes, but as soon as my eyes slide away, my palms start to sweat as I wonder if I should have responded in kind.  I look up quickly.  Michael is just turning away.  He sees I’ve looked back and returns his attention to me, right when my gaze falters.  We could be at this all day and we don't even like each other.  It’s hit and miss skirmishes like this that make me wish I were home schooled.  I turn and walk away.

“Hey, Rita.” There are a half a dozen lockers between Rita’s and mine, and she doesn’t hear my greeting.  My best friend is half in half out of her locker.  Rita is tall, with wiry brown hair and soft brown eyes.  She’s skinny as a pool cue.  Her thin neck is bent forward at an awkward angle and she is perusing something avidly.  I move closer and call her name again.  She quickly drops what she is reading onto the floor of her locker and spins around.  I glance past her into her locker and see a small sheet of paper.  It’s pink.

“What’s up?” I ask, grinning.

“Nothing.”

“You okay?”

“Sure, Maggie.  Why wouldn’t I be?” She shrugs her thin shoulders and doesn’t meet my eye.

My grin widens. I can hear the worry in her voice. “Isn’t Saturday the day that life as you know it ends?”

She smiles a little at that. “Most people just call it Valentine’s Day.”

“It sounds more like the Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

The ‘it’ I am referring to is the first (and hopefully last) ever annual varsity cheerleaders’ “Looking for Love” dating service – a one day only adolescent match.com. For a small fee, twenty dollars, the cheerleaders are promising to hook you up with the Valentine’s Day date of your dreams. I’ve heard that there are points of compatibility involved. It’s scary stuff. Most of the girls on the cheerleading squad still have trouble remembering their locker combinations. Rita filled out the survey and coughed up the twenty bucks – proceeds to benefit the Cheer Camp fund. I did not. I would rather spend an entire weekend immersed in algebra than risk such a potentially humiliating activity. Plus – Cheer Camp? Please.

Rita turns and carefully shuts the door to her locker, staring at its tan surface for a moment.  “Let’s go to Billie’s Burgers for lunch today,” she says, her eyes still glued to her locker – like she’s asking it for a lunch date. 

“Are we avoiding cafeteria food or a particular student?”

“I just feel like a hamburger.”

Right.  The school year is half gone and this is the first time Rita has suggested going off campus for lunch.  I hazard a guess.  The note is pink after all.  It probably isn’t a reminder that girls’ basketball practice is cancelled.  “I thought you weren’t going to get the match results until tomorrow.”

“Yeah.  That’s what I thought.”  Her nervousness surprises me. Usually when Rita embraces an idea she jumps in with both feet; even if it’s a stupid idea.  Must have been a bum match.

“I guess they wanted to give people a chance to move or enroll in boarding school,” I joke.

She smiles weakly.  “Maybe.”

Although I’m tempted to tease her just a little more, or remind her that I warned her not to do it, I switch to reassuring best friend mode instead. “It can’t be that bad.  Who’d you get?”

“Joe Thorpe.”

“Oh.” I nod.  Now that I know her date is Joe Thorpe, I’m even more surprised that she’s anxious.  Rita and Joe aren’t great friends, but they are friends.  “Joe seems nice,” I venture. “You’ll probably have fun.  Won’t be able to get a word in edgewise though.”

We both laugh at that. Joe is the quietest boy in our class.

“So. How about Billy’s?  My treat. ”

I shake my head.  “I can’t.  Sorry.  Reading Club meeting. ”  I’m a member of the Reading Club because Vice-Principal Kelly insists I need some sort of extracurricular activity.  I hate sports.  I can’t sing.  I like to read.  It’s a good fit, except there are only five of us so I’m stuck being secretary - which means I can’t skip the meetings. 

“Sure.  Alright.”  She’s messing with her hair, untucking her short curls from behind her ears and then tucking them back. “You doing anything after school?  I thought we could get together…”

Just then the late bell rings and I mime "call me" then hurry to class.  Poor Rita.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meeting minutes for Wilbur High Reading Club:

Members Present:  Maggie Hess and Rachel Atkins. 

12:10: Meeting called to order.

12:12: Rachel Atkins opened the meeting and asked if anyone had finished The Life of Pi.  Rachel was reminded that the book agreed upon at the last meeting was A Thousand Splendid Suns. 



12:14: Announcements and reminders:  The next meeting will be held in the library at noon on February 28th where we will discuss A Thousand Splendid Suns and the possibility of having a bake sale.



12:15: Meeting Adjourned 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I pause at the entrance of the cafeteria.  It is chaotic, as usual. I stand at the threshold adjusting to the din: the grating, high pitched giggles, the booming voices of teenage boys talking too loudly and too much. A missile arcs through the air, an orange I think. Students entering the cafeteria alone quickly attach themselves to their respective groups.  We’re like herds of different types of animals, milling about within our defined territories.  Every student, for the most part, knows exactly which area he is allowed to occupy, and which area he is allowed to traverse only, on his way to another area.

The jungle cats, the herd highest on the food chain, occupy the prime territory near the windows. I’m not sure that herd is the right term for them. A group of lions would be a pride. What about a group of panthers or leopards? I’m not sure.  The group is made up of jocks, cheerleaders, and a few of the more charismatic student council members. On the whole they are well off and gorgeous. The boys look sleek and well fed. The girls look sleek and underfed. None of them are licking their paws and slicking back their smooth, shiny hair, but I can picture them doing it. Although they are a small group, they take up several tables, and the windows are their preserve alone. They perch on the windowsills until Mrs. Carson, the lunchroom monitor, yells at them to get off. They slide off and wait until her attention is diverted before reclaiming the windows.  Michael is one of them.  His family isn’t well off, but he’s a good athlete: a starter for football and basketball.  He isn’t the most popular boy at school, but he’s pretty high up on the food chain.  His glance slides around the room like he’s looking for someone.

I walk past the worst tables in the cafeteria, the ones adjacent to the radiators. The radiators are old and noisy and they blast a steady stream of hot air directly onto the nearby tables. It feels like a rain forest there. The Aardvarks occupy these tables. Eyesight is almost universally weak here. Uni brows are de rigueur for the boys. Some of the girls are slightly overweight, and they hide their ample figures beneath big flannel shirts that fall to their thighs. They must be sweltering. In a kinder universe, the undernourished uber popular girls who have no fat to insulate them and tend to dress scantily would occupy these tables.

I don’t head for the radiators or the windows. I turn towards the middle of the room.  I am a wildebeest - a Wilbur High Wildebeest - and not just because I like the alliteration. Last year I watched a National Geographic TV show about the Serengeti. An overhead shot showed an enormous geographic area completely overrun by migrating wildebeests. I remember that when the shot widened there were a few other types of animals scattered across the plains –mostly zebras and gazelles traveling in small compact herds. There were also a handful of predators that picked off a few weakened, unlucky creatures. But most of the television screen was taken up by what looked like an enormous moving island of wildebeests. Their only unique characteristic was their sheer numbers. It defined them. My friends and I are like that. We are average, and we are part of a vast herd of average students. I don’t mind. I understand that there is safety in numbers.

I weave through tables until I reach the table we always occupy. It’s right in the middle of the room. Rita is surprised to see me but she slides over and I plop my lunch bag onto the table and sit down.  “Short meeting,” I say.

Instead of replying, Rita rearranges the items on her lunch tray: green beans in one corner, milk in the other, pizza front and center.

She finally opens her mouth to speak but before she manages to say anything there is a rustle of activity around us. She closes her mouth. Michael Brown has quietly abandoned his window seat and wandered into our territory. He sits down at our table and waves a vague greeting to the group at large. He doesn’t sit like the rest of us, facing the table. Instead he faces away and stretches his long legs out in front of him. He pulls a cupcake out of his lunch bag and then sets the bag on the seat beside him. We are all confused by his presence.

“You guys going to the basketball game this Friday?” he asks. He is the star player.

There is a chorus of yeses and I think sos.  I don’t like to lie so I answer truthfully. “No.”

He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care because he doesn’t spare me a glance. Instead he begins to work on his cupcake. He eats with surprising delicacy for a boy. Instead of inhaling the cupcake in one or two bites, he contemplates it for a moment then swirls his tongue through the chocolate frosting just around the edges of the cupcake. After that he gently peels the paper from the cupcake and lays the paper on his knee. He breaks small pieces off to eat one at a time and seems to savour every bite. It must taste very good, because he concentrates utterly on his task, ignoring us completely. Occasionally, he tosses his head to flick the hair away from his eyes. His hair is too long, glossy, and black. Although some of us watch him from the corners of our eyes rather than stare, all of us watch. He finishes by taking the paper off his knee and folding it into progressively smaller triangles. Once he’s satisfied, he twists around and tucks the triangle under the napkin dispenser. Then Michael Brown turns to me and asks me for my phone number.

My face flushes, but beyond that I don’t react. Instead, I stare at my half eaten sandwich and pray silently for the bell that signals the end of lunch. My heart is thrumming in my ears. I wait for the other wildebeests to distract him with a sudden noise or movement. This would be a good time for one of them to break their leg. When I glance up again Michael is still looking at me.

“Can I get your phone number?” he repeats.

“Why do you want my phone number?”

“So I can call you?” His voice rises on the last word, changing the statement into a question. His eyes, big and blue, look perplexed.

I say nothing and we remain at an impasse for several seconds until Courtney Kline, who is sitting across from me, fishes a piece of paper and a pen out of her purse and hands them to me. I write down my phone number in shaky script and hand him the paper which he folds with the same attention to detail he displayed earlier. He stands up, slips the folded note into his pocket, and walks away. After he is safely back in his own territory, the girls at my table burst into quiet hysterics.

“Oh my God!.” … “He’s sooo cute.”… “You are so lucky!”

There are only two girls at the table who remain silent: Rita and me.

Finally, I turn to her. “What just happened?” I ask.

She smiles, but her smile wobbles a bit. She knows she’s messed up big time. “I thought it would be funny.” She hands me a computer print out.  It’s pink. On the top is the heading ‘Looking for Love’. The font is big and flowery. There is a heart in place of the dot in the word ‘Looking’. I scan down what seems to be a list of questions and answers until I reach the important part. The two names on the printout: Maggie Hess and Michael Brown.

For the first time in my life I understand what shaking with rage really feels like. In fact, I am so angry I'm afraid I might start to cry.

“I don’t really see the problem. He seems nice. I’ll bet you end up having a good time.” It doesn’t escape my notice that she has parroted back my words of reassurance to her.

The problem is, my so-called best friend registered me without my permission. The problem is, if I am going to be involved in a pity date, I want to be the pity-dater not the pity-datee. The problem is, I have a problem with Michael Brown.

The lunch bell finally rings, but it is too late to save me.  Rita is still talking to me when I get up and walk away.

***************************************

The phone is already ringing when I arrive home from school, but my mom answers before I can get to it. “Hess residence… may I ask who's calling?”

I've asked her not to answer the phone that way, but she persists. I think it's a sneaky way for her to keep tabs on who I'm seeing and who my friends are, and she thinks I'm paranoid. We have Caller ID, so she may have a point.

“Michael Brown,” she says, handing me the phone.

He's calling to iron out the details of our 'Looking for Love' dream date. My stomach twists into knots. I want to tell him about Rita's duplicity, but I lack the courage. Instead, I hurriedly agree to his suggestions and hang up.

Mom is waiting to pounce as soon as I get off the phone. “Michael Brown, haven't I heard you mention him before?”

I have mentioned him…a few times. For a moment I'm tempted to deny it, but the thing about my mom is, she's actually pretty cool. To be honest, she's way cooler than I am. She lets me bitch and moan about school, friends, and life in general, without ever trying to fix things, or even giving me much advice, although she does occasionally tell me to mellow out. Mellow is not a natural state for me. I'm not ready to share the gory details, but I don't want to shut her out completely either. “The skater,” I say. Not skater as in ice or roller… as in school. That is the main problem I have with Michael. While the rest of us bust our humps to keep up, because he is a star athlete, and because he is well liked, he does what he wants, when he wants, with no discernible repercussions. He is a no-show for tests, and I've seen him waltz out of class in the middle of a pop quiz without the teacher batting an eye. He has a free pass, and it irritates the hell out of me. I'm not sure why I take it as a personal affront. Although my mom wouldn't say it, there are plenty of adults who would tell me he is only hurting himself.

“You two going out?” Mom asks.

“Seems like.”

“On a date?”

No, out of the country. “It's just dinner, Mom.”

I know she'd love to pry further, but because she is cool, and she sees I'm not in share mode, she lets it drop. My dad was an idiot to leave her.

During dinner the phone begins to ring again, and it rings intermittently for the next several hours. It's Rita, and I ignore it. My mom wants to take the phone off the hook or turn off the ringer but I beg her not to. Just in case Michael Brown decides his great aunt in Des Moines has died, and he needs to leave tomorrow to attend the funeral.

*****************************

Saturday arrives and Michael shows up at my doorstep promptly at 7 p.m.  A few unimpressive snowflakes dust his dark hair, making a mockery of my fervent wish for a blizzard.  In order to keep spectators to a bare minimum, I have already paid my little brother ten dollars to stay upstairs during the handoff. Yes, I have one of those. Chris is 14 years old. He is athletic, glib beyond his years, and everything else that I am not. We have a love hate relationship. I love him dearly when he's sleeping.

When Michael steps inside, my cat, sensing an affinity, takes an immediate shine to him and purrs loudly while she wraps herself sinuously around his ankles. My mom looks like she'd like to do the same, so I keep the introductions short and whisk him away.

“You look very pretty,” he says as we crunch through last week's snow, toward his truck. 

“Thank you.” I don't look very pretty, but according to the mirror I’ve consulted a half a dozen times I look alright.  Fine - a dozen times.  I’m wearing my favourite green skirt and a silky grey blouse.  My hair is my one good feature. It streams down each shoulder in two soft dark waves.  Michael, as usual, looks great.  He’s wearing straight-legged black jeans and a flannel shirt that matches his blue eyes. I figure he doesn't really need the affirmation so I say nothing. 

Michael's truck is an ancient tan Ford. Not classic ancient - ugly, rusty, ancient. His parents own a small cattle ranch, and the Ford is a moving advertisement that the Brown's have not had a bonanza year in quite some time. He opens the door for me, and I jump up and into the truck without waiting for help. He circles around to the driver's side and climbs in. “You'll have to sit in the middle,” he says. “The seat belt on that side is broken.”

Back before my father decided that family life was just a phase he was going through, he used to tell me I should avoid high stakes poker games at all costs. It's true. My artful little brother has no trouble arranging his features to display whatever emotion is most appropriate to the moment. I do not have that facility. When I'm happy, I look happy. When I'm bored... That's why Chris got a Game Boy Advanced from Grandma Tilly for Christmas last year, and I got a lousy sweater. Not that I'm complaining. Just for the record though, no matter how riveting Grandma's ongoing battle against neighbors who don't curb their dogs is, it suffers some in the re-retelling.  Right now, with my side tight against the passenger side door, and my hand clutching the door handle, I am horrified.

Michael laughs when he sees the expression on my face. “Relax,” he says. “Just tell yourself it's for a great cause.”

“It's Cheer Camp.”

“Yeah?” His truck rumbles truculently to life. 

“That's not exactly a great cause.”

He shrugs. “I guess that's a matter of opinion. I'll bet Jennie Marr would disagree with you.”

“Who's she?” I've only lived in Wilbur for six months, and I've never heard of her.

“She was a cheerleader last year,” he says. “The one on top when they attempted a pyramid that was waaaay beyond their skill level.” He pats the seat next to him, and I reluctantly slide over. “Don't worry though. She's fine. And the leg looks darn real.”

I laugh, but I still gaze longingly at the side view mirror as my house slowly disappears.

Michael is very good at chit-chat and he walks me through a conversation that requires minimal effort on my part. It gives me a chance to get my nerves under control.

“So where did you live, before Wilbur?”

“Spokane.”

“Oh. City girl.”

“ Yeah...I guess so...um...no...not really.” My mouth finally runs out of answers and waits impatiently for my brain to catch up.  I take a minute, then say, "I mean I lived in a big city but I didn't really partake."

“Not into malls and Starbucks?”

“Starbucks.” I concede.  “Not malls.”

“Not even the food courts?  I’d kill to have a food court within an hour’s drive away.”  He sounds just like my little brother.

I'm just starting to relax a little when he stops too abruptly at a red light, and a box slides out from underneath the seat near the passenger side door. I'm not one hundred percent, but I'm pretty sure I know what it is.

Michael looks at the box, looks at my face, and then looks back at the box. It is well beyond his reach. The light turns green and he hesitates for just a moment before shifting into first gear. He tries to concentrate on the road, but his glance keeps looping…the road…the box…my face.

I close my eyes and pray to whichever god has some spare time on his hands to transport me anywhere else on earth. The gods are either too busy or I am deemed unworthy, because when I open my eyes, nothing has changed. I am still rolling down the highway in a crummy old truck, thigh to thigh with Michael Brown, with a box of condoms rattling around on the floorboards near my feet.

Conversation grinds to a halt as both of us concentrate on the tasks at hand: Michael, driving and trying to make the box disappear through sheer force of will. Me, pretending not to notice he is flustered, and pretending not to know what's in the box. It goes without saying that my poker-face deficit is not making my job any easier.  I feel a sudden affinity for poor Jennie Marr, the girl perched on top of the pyramid that was way beyond her skill level. I know what she must have been thinking: there is no way this is going to end well.

When the truck swerves over the centreline for the second time I feel compelled to take action. “Want me to get those for you?” I indicate the box with a nod of my head.

“No…thanks. I'd  rather you didn't.”

“Maybe I could just kick them back under the seat.”

“That would be great…if you don't mind.”

It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to kick the offending prophylactics out of sight.

He studies my face for a minute. “They were already in the truck,” he says finally.

I suppose what he is trying to say, is that he didn't purchase them with the intent of having wild but protected sex with me tonight. That is kind of a given.

“Maybe you could keep them in the glove box,” I suggest.

He shrugs. “The door sticks. Besides, it's more convenient to keep them under the seat.”

Well gross.  This last sentence is information I do not need.  I go to a disturbing visual place, and come back wishing I'd brought a towel from home to sit on. Jeez. I mean, I know this guy is comfortable in his own skin, but would it kill him to have a little consideration for the rest of us spazzes who aren't quite there yet? The idea that some, perhaps many, of my classmates have had sex on the very spot where I'm sitting is not something I'm prepared to deal with. “What a pig,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

Whatever discomfort Michael may have been feeling earlier seems to have vanished, because now he looks irritated.  Like everything else, it looks good on him. “Not really. Maybe you're just a prude.”

I am a prude. In fact, I'm a card-carrying member of Prudes Anonymous.  I'm up for treasurer next year. But it still stings to hear it said out loud. I can't get too huffy though, since I'm the one who started the name calling in the first place. I stare out the window and say nothing, fighting the urge to cry.  Why did I call him a pig? Why do I feel like crying?  Why doesn’t Michael Brown have a recently deceased great aunt awaiting a proper burial in Des Moines?  I hate it here and wish passionately that we’d never moved to Wilbur.

The last five minutes of the drive go by in long gory silence.  Michael pulls into the restaurant parking lot and shuts off the engine, and we both just sit there. 

I’m sorry.  The words I should be saying right now.  They rattle noisily around my brain, looking for an exit.

“I’m sorry.”  Michael says it - not me.  I hate him a little bit for that. But his words finally kick start me into action.

“No.  I started it.  I’m sorry.”

He turns to face me.  Since I’m sitting in the middle, his knee grazes mine, but I manage not to move away. “I should have cleaned out the truck.  I forgot those were there.  But…”

“Right…I didn’t mean…”

“The thing is…” Oh God – please just strike him dead or me deaf before he mentions protection, or condoms, or anything even vaguely connected to the sex act. 

“I’m starved,” I say in what I hope is a brisk let bygones be bygones voice.  “Are you hungry?”

“What I’m trying to say is - it’s possible that I over shared just now.” 

You think?  I stare at him for a moment and then, unexpectedly, I’m struck by an uncontrollable case of the giggles.  In all fairness, I am probably not the best judge of what should or should not be public information.  I am the girl who drives all the way to Davenport to purchase underwear so I won’t run into anyone I know.

The corners of his mouth begin to lift. “Maybe some of that info was ‘need to know’ only?”

“Maybe.”

He opens the door and helps me out.



Dinner is fun.  We both order cheeseburgers and split an order of curly fries.  Michael goes to work on the curly fries the minute the food arrives, completely ignoring his cheeseburger.  Chris has employed this strategy for years.  Pounce on the communal food first, and then enjoy your own food while everyone else is squabbling over the last French fry.  I let it slide.  We talk about school.  He talks about sports.  I talk about books.  For the most part, we actually listen to each other too.  His story about the basketball team’s last trip to State is pretty interesting, and after a long, earnest campaign, I wrangle a half-hearted promise from him to read the first chapter of The Good Earth.

It has started snowing in earnest by the time we finish dinner.  The sidewalk is slippery and Michael takes my arm while we head for the truck.  Snow is sticking to the road now so Michael drives slowly.  By Coulee Heights we’ve covered video games, TV shows and movies, and the conversation is just starting to sputter.  We’re nearly home though, so I’m not concerned.  Well actually, I am concerned.  But not about our flagging conversation.  I’m worrying about what’s going to happen once we get to my place.  Is he going to try to kiss me?  Would that be good or bad?  What an idiot I am.

“What was your last boyfriend like?” he asks me out of the blue.

My last boyfriend had action figures on prominent display in his bedroom and maybe even preferred them to having a girlfriend.  “I don’t know.  Why?”

He shrugs.  “I just wondered.  You don’t seem to like jocks.  I thought maybe you had a bad experience with one.”

At this point I’m still not worrying.  I’m feeling great.  I have nothing against jocks, and I tell him that.  It’s true that I don’t like sports, but that’s because sports are dumb and boring.  I don’t hold it against the athletes.

His fingers tap out a restless tune on the steering wheel and he persists.  “Either you don’t like jocks or you don’t like me.  I see the way you look at me.”  After a second he corrects himself.  “Looked at me.  Before tonight.”

Okay.  Now I’m worried.  Not jump out of a moving truck worried, but can you please step on the gas so we can end this date worried.  “I just don’t like the breaks athletes get,” I say finally.  I’m careful to say athletes instead of  ‘you’ even though, in all honesty,  I mean ‘you’.  “It isn’t fair.”

He looks surprised.  “We don’t get any breaks.  We work as hard as everyone else.  Some of us work harder.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing – from Michael Brown of all people.  I almost let it slide but I can’t.  I just can’t.  It’s one thing to ignore injustice from a distance.  This is up close and it feels personal.  “You walked out of Modern History last week right in the middle of a pop quiz,” I remind him.  “And you were a no-show for the last test.”

I hear Michael take a short quick breath, but he says nothing.

“It’s not that big a deal,” I say.  “It’s just a little unfair.”

Silence. 

My heart begins to pound.  “It’s no big deal,” I repeat.  “You have practice and people like sports and…”

“So you think I cheat?”  He interrupts me - which is just as well because I’m babbling.  The dim light of the dashboard illuminates his face.  It is tight and suffused with more emotion than I think my comment warrants. 

“No.  I didn’t say that.  I said jocks get breaks that no one else gets.”

“Right.  But who else have you noticed?  Besides me.  No one – right?  Just me.”  His voice vibrates a little, but it might be the Ford’s engine that’s causing it.  The truck has picked up speed, and I can feel the backend begin to fishtail.  He must feel it too because he eases up on the gas.

“I didn’t say you were cheating.”

“Yes you did.”

I close my eyes. He’s right, of course.  I did say it.  I just added some extra jocks and a few more adjectives to make it sound more acceptable.  Plus – I do think it’s a big deal.  So I’ve just lied to make him feel better too.  That’s one embellishment and one outright lie.  And he is the one who’s offended.  I look around the cab of the truck like I’m looking for something.  I suppose I am.  I’m looking for the real me: the Maggie who gets sweaters for Christmas instead of Gameboys; the Maggie who at least tries to tell the truth.  “You’re right.”  My voice is flat, and hard, and maybe a little mean.  “I think you cheat.  I think you’re a cheater.”

He says nothing.  I say nothing.  The snowflakes are piling up now, covering the grey remains of last week’s drifts.  The snow is perfect and pristine, and it hurts to look at it.  I glance over at Michael, then return my gaze to the glittering drifts.

When we get to my house I try to move over to the passenger side door, but he quickly gets out and steps out of my way so I can get out on the driver’s side.  He takes my elbow as I slip down to the ground.  He’s done it before, at the restaurant, but that time his grip was light, helpful.  His grasp is firmer this time.  Not rough – just different.

He doesn’t let go and I can feel his eyes on me, but I stare straight ahead and wait.  “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

I’m smart enough this time to let my silence speak for me.

“You don’t even know me.”

Finally, he releases my arm and I walk carefully towards the door.  It’s slippery, and I don’t want to fall.  Not in front of Michael Brown.  “I have dyslexia,” I hear him say to my retreating back.  I don’t turn around.  “Not that it’s any of your business. But I get extra time for tests and stuff.”

I keep walking and don’t turn around.

“You could have just asked.  Instead of just assuming the worst.”

I keep walking.  At first I’m afraid he’s going to call me a bitch and then I’m afraid he won’t.  I hear the truck door slam, and the truck rumble to life.  I do not turn around.

My mom is waiting up for me.  She has that little smile on her face.  The one that parents get when they are anticipating good news.  It disappears the moment she gets a good look at me.

“You okay?” she asks.

Obviously, I’m not.  I’m horrible.  I’m a horrible, judgmental person and, tonight someone else besides me has figured that out.  I sweep past her, and rush down the hallway towards my room.  The tears I have been holding back slip in hot tracks down my cheeks.  There’s a picture in my head that I can’t get rid of: Michael, standing outside his truck, staring at my retreating back as I walk away.  I’m not even sure that happened.  Maybe he just said what he had to say, shook his head in disgust, and jumped back into the truck.  The part about me walking away happened though.  And then it strikes me.  I’m in the midst of doing the same thing right now – except my mom is the one watching my retreat this time.  I stop just outside my door and count the number of people I’ve walked away from in the past few days: Michael, Rita, my mom.  Rita deserved it though.  I want to open my door, go inside, shut the door.  Shutting the door to the rest of the world feels like salvation. But I don’t do it. Even though I’ve never wanted to do anything more in my life, I don’t.  Instead, for once, I turn around. 

I go back.  I go back and I tell my mom everything.  No – not everything.  I skip the part about the condoms, and tell her everything else.  She lets me talk, and offers no advice.  Through it all I am crying so hard I feel like I’m going to throw up. Beyond handing me a box of Kleenex and making me tea when I’m all cried out, my mom does not fuss. 

“What do you want to do about it?” My mom says as she hands me my tea.

That is a no brainer.  What I want to do about it is nothing.  That is my standard non-plan: Do nothing.  It’s not like I invented the plan – it’s just what works best for average looking girls with above average intelligence who want to make it through high school more or less intact.  We aren’t the ones risking everything for glory by scrambling up to the top of a swaying pyramid.  We are the ones safely on the ground.  We are the audience.  We shouldn’t have to crash and burn.

I open my mouth to tell my mom that this will blow over.  It isn’t like Michael Brown is my boyfriend.  As if.  I can pretend I’m sick on Monday…give everything time to settle down.  It isn’t like he’s even my friend.  I take a sip of my tea.  He doesn’t need friends – Michael has millions of them – there’s probably a waiting list. The tea is uncomfortably hot and burns my tongue, but I’d rather drink it than answer my mom’s question, so I keep drinking until the cup is empty.  And I still haven’t answered her question.  I wash my cup and go to my room without answering her.  Knowing me, I’ll never answer that question.  But I know that answering the question isn’t the important part.  It takes me a long time to get up the nerve, and I nearly talk myself out of it.  But finally, I pick up the phone and force myself to dial.

Michael answers the phone sounding breathless, like he’s had to run to catch it.  “Hello,” he says.

I take a deep breath and say hello.







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