Authors: Frank Anthony Polito
We stop at our locker momentarily to pick up our supplies. “Hurry up,” I tell Brad. “Audrey's gonna be pissed we're taking so long!”
“Would you shut up about Ostrich, already?” Brad hisses. “You are such a goddamn Worry Wart!”
Why I ever bothered to tell him I used to call Audrey “Ostrich” back in Kindergarten, I don't know. All I know isâ¦One of these days Brad's gonna slip and say it right to her face. And then I'll be totally busted!
He pops the locker open, pulls his duffle bag from atop a pile of papers and books and Gym shoes and dirty shorts and other general crap he's accumulated over the past three years. “Perfect!” Then in his best Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford in
Mommie Dearest
he says, “Let's go.”
So let's seeâ¦We've got Craig Gershrowski's locker combination. We've got a duffle bag full of supplies. Now we're on our way to meet Audrey Wojczek at Fuck Face's lockerâ¦You're probably
still
wondering what exactly it is we're gonna do.
The sound of wooden-heeled dress shoes against gray-tiled floor rings in my ears like the rhythm of the metronome Mrs. Putnam uses to keep time during 1st hour Symphonic Band. I've gotta admit, there's something I enjoy about the empty hallways of Webb Junior High when they're all dark and quiet like this. It's much more peaceful than when they're filled with a bunch of obnoxious screaming 12â14-year-olds!
“What the Hell is taking you guys so goddamn long?”
“We had to stop and get the supplies,” I tell Audrey, who's been waiting impatiently for us at locker #686. She actually looks kind of pretty in pink frills with dyed matching flats. Too bad she came Stag.
“Did you get everything?” Brad holds open his duffle bag for Audrey to inspect its contents. “This'll show that Fuck Face Fucker,” she snarls. Then she gets to work, spinning the dial on Craig's locker. “Nobody messes with my Best Friend and gets away with it.”
Brad and I stand guard. Just in case Craig Gershrowski feels it necessary to drop by during the middle of the Dance. Though he's probably too busy sucking face with the piddly little 7
th
grader he conned into coming with him. (Gross!)
“Who the fuck does he think he is, anyways?” Audrey mutters. “Did you get a load of what he's wearing?” By which she's referring to the black tuxedo with red cummerbund and matching bow tie Fuck Face's Mommy rented for him in honor of tonight's Special Occasion. “This is a fucking junior high danceâ¦Not a goddamn high school Prom.”
All of a sudden, I realize how weird it feels to be standing next to my old locker #685. Not weird-weird, butâ¦There was a time back in 7
th
grade when I'd walk down this hallway and I'd stop in this exact same spot every single day. I distinctly remember the picture I hung on the inside of my locker doorâ¦Teri Copley from
We Got It Made,
wearing this white long T-shirt/mini-dress, belted at the waist, with little fringe-like cuts on the sleeves. Pre-
Flashdance,
but almost the exact same kinda style. Of course, this was back before Kristian Alfonso ever came into my life! Now it's like locker #685 never even belonged to me. Like I totally abandoned it when that Fuck Face Fucker Craig Gershrowski descended upon Webb Junior Highâ¦Which I totally did.
I hear the POP of a locker door opening and turn to see Audrey just about wetting herself. “Yeah, Baby!” she exclaims.
“Hell, yes!” Brad cheers.
“Hurry up,” I implore, looking down the hallway for any signs of Intelligent Life or Carnation Dance Chaperones like Gorgeous George Grant or Jessica Clark Putnam.
“Eggs,” Audrey says to Brad, totally sounding like a TV doctor asking for a scalpel during surgery.
“Eggs,” Brad repeats, playing the part of the dutiful nurse/assistant. He pulls from his duffle bag a yellow carton of Grade A Jumbos and hands them to Dr. Audrey. She crouches down in front of Fuck Face's locker, preparing to do the deed.
I can't bear to look at what happens nextâ¦I hear the sound of shell against metal locker. Followed by the PLOP of eggs being cracked into a pair of Adidas hi-top tennis shoes.
“Shit!” Audrey curses.
“What?” I ask, still not looking.
“I just got yolk on my brand new shoes.” And to show just how pissed off she really is, Audrey tosses a couple extra eggs into Fuck Face's locker at random.
Meanwhile, Brad's busying himself down on the floor, looping together pieces of Scotch tape and affixing them to the back of several naked-man pictures we cut out from
Playgirl
. Compliments of Big Boobs Janelle. The plan is to cover the inside of Fuck Face's locker door. Then come tomorrow morning when he opens it, he'll get a nice little surprise to the tune of a bunch of raging hard-ons!
He also won't find any books. Because we're taking themâall! Then next week, when Brad and I are on our way to Bob-lo Island for our traditional end-of-the-year Band trip, we're throwing them off the Bob-lo Boat into the Detroit River. I only wish I were standing at locker #685 tomorrow morning to see the look on Fuck Face Craig Gershrowski's fucking face.
This'll teach him to fuck with the Band Fags!
“I think of all the education that I missed
But then my homework was never quite like this⦔
âVan Halen
Talk about the End of an Era!
I can't even believe it's Memorial Dayâthe last time me and Brad will ever march through the streets of Hazeltucky as Webb Warriors. It seems like only yesterday we were piddly little 7
th
graders learning how to high step and mark time (march) and pinwheel around the parking lot, all the while keeping an instrument held up to your face.
Of course, it totally rained on our parade. Like it does every year. But that didn't keep us from moving in time, five across, down the middle of John R. Starting at 8 Mile, we continued on for a mile and a half, turning left on Woodward Heights near St. Mary Magdalen's. Then down another half mile and over to the Rec. Center on the other side of I-75 near Green Acres Park, where we put on one final show for the judges in the grandstand. Which is really just a set of wooden bleachers some custodians from one of the elementary schools set up.
But it's no wonder we got straight I's this past Winter at the Michigan School Band and Orchestra Association Festivalâbetter known as MSBOA. You should've heard us rocking out to Sousa's “Stars and Stripes Forever” and “Freedom” by Wham! I've gotta admit, I used to think the lead singer was a Total Fag back when I first saw the “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” video on MTV. But ever since “Careless Whisper” came out, I kinda like them.
Though it's not like it was our last time ever marching in a parade. Once we get to Hillbilly High in the Fall, we'll be playing at the Varsity Football Home games on Friday nights. Not to mention in all the parades from Hamtramck to Hollandâ¦Looks like Brad and I are doomed to be Band Fags for another three more years.
After the parade, I
thought
maybe I'd spend the afternoon hanging out with Brad. But when I asked him what he was doing, he informed me that since Bobby Russell's house was just on the other side of the freeway, he was gonna go over there. So I went back to my houseâby myself.
The next morning before 1st hourâ¦
“What are you doing after school?” Brad asks me. Like he doesn't even realize how pissed I was when he abandoned me post-parade.
“After school today?” I barely look at him, thinking maybe he'll get the hint.
“Noâ¦After school
yesterday.
”
As per usual, we're gathering our things in between classes from his locker. Which is still a Total Mess, despite the constant reminders we keep getting from Faculty and Administration that we need to start clearing them out. Only eight more days left of school till Finals. Then another week after that, Summer Vacation officially begins.
“I should
probably
study for my Civics exam,” I decide. Partly because it's true and partly because I'm beginning to think Brad doesn't appreciate what a Good Friend I've been these past almost-three years.
“When's the test?” he asks.
“June 12
th
.”
“You've still got like over two whole weeks,” he replies, doing the math.
“Yeahâ¦But Grant's really sticking it to us with the Branches-of-Government-this and Electoral-College-that,” I tell him. “How am I ever gonna memorize everything?”
“Sounds like Total Bullshit to me,” Brad replies.
But how would he know? Seeing that he's got Old Lady McKenzie. She's been giving the exact same tests year after year after year so everybody's got all the answers from some cheat sheet that's been in circulation since Michigan's own Gerald Ford was President. Brad obviously doesn't realize how hard Grant's test is gonna beâ¦Or how much I've got riding on it.
“If I don't get an A,” I remind him, “I'll fuck up my 4.0 and then I won't get the Student of the Year Award.”
“Oh, no!” Brad exclaims, not even bothering to comment on the fact that the F-word is becoming a consistent part of my vocabulary lately. “What're you gonna do, Jack?”
“What
can
I do?” I catch a glimpse of myself in the tiny mirror hanging on the inside of Brad's locker door. Boy, do I look desperate! Not to mention, like Hell.
I reach into my back pocket, remove my red-handled vent-brush, and run it through my recently trimmed hair. Tracy Cardoza's older sister, Lydia, goes to Cosmetology School at Jardon and she cut it for me over the weekend. The good thing isâ¦she charged me only $5. Which is a lot less than I'd pay at BoRics or Fantastic Sam's. Though I can't even believe how wavy my hair has gotten in the last year or so. Back when I was a kid, I had totally straight, totally white blond hair. Now it's like I hit puberty and
all
my hair has become dark and curly!
“You should totally talk to Mr. Grant about this,” Brad advises me, referring to the fact that I'm totally gonna fail my Civics final unless a Miracle occurs.
“What am I supposed to say?” I can't help but notice the stress-induced zit erupting from the center of my chin.
Great!
I slam the locker door and begin down the hallway.
Brad follows close behind. “You could always say something like, âPlease don't fail me, Mr. Grant,'” Ã la his new favorite actress, Marilyn Monroe. “âI'll do
anything
to get an A in your class.'”
I scoff, “Yeah, right!” Like I'd really say something that stupid.
“I bet Grant could think of a way for you to get one,” Brad speculates, raising a brow.
To which I say, “Would you shut up?”
To which he doesn't. “You know what people say⦔
I'm like, “Mr. Grant is not
like that.
”
And he's like, “I don't knowâ¦Everybody thinks he's a Total Fag.”
I'm about to say,
People say that about
us
â¦
But I can't bring myself to even think it, let alone say it out loud. The last thing I'm gonna do is give the Assholes we go to school with the satisfaction. The last thing I'm gonna do is start doubting myselfâdoubting my Best Friend. If Brad was a Total Fag, I know he would tell me. And I'd do the same. But I know he's not and I know he knows I'm not either. So what's the point in bringing it up?
Instead I say, “People say that about
a lot
of people and it doesn't mean they'reâ¦
Like that.
” I sneak a peek at my reflection in the Guidance Counseling Office windows, confirming what I know is trueâ¦The person I see looking back is totally Normal. He's just like everybody else in this totally stupid school.
Brad replies, “Oh, I know⦔ But as we mosey on our way, he continues with his hypothesis. “I'll never forget when Mr. Grant was my Swimming coach back in 7
th
gradeâ¦He'd always come into the locker room when me and Bobby Russell were in there and walk around in a towel.” Then he throws in, “Sometimes he'd even take a showerâ¦Right in front of us.”
Why do grown-up men always feel the need to show off in front of little boys? I remember one Summer when I was like 9 or 10 years old, I went to Open Swim up at Hillbilly High with my Best Friend at the time, Joey Palladino. Whenever we'd be in the locker room changing, this older Lifeguard Guy would come in and do the exact same thing. Which was how I first learned about the existence of pubic hair, by the way. (Gross!)
“Does Mr. Grant have a nice body?” I find myself wondering aloud. It looks like he might through his clothes and all. He's got this one white short-sleeved polo shirt and his arms look pretty big when he wears it. So does his chest.
“He's got a
great
bod!” Brad informs me. Followed by, “He's got a big dick, too.”
“How would you know?” I ask, picking my jaw up from the floor.
“Duh! I saw it when he was taking a shower.”
I pull Brad aside, across from Principal Messinger's Office, next to the trophy display cases in the front commons. “Did Mr. Grant ever catch you looking at him?” I ask. “I know I'd be a little weirded out if I was a 30-year-old man and some little 12-year-old boy was watching me take a shower.”
“I wasn't exactly
watching
him,” he explains. “He was just in the shower and so was Iâ¦And there it was, plain as day.” By which he means Mr. Grant's Private Parts.
I don't know what else to sayâ¦So I say nothing. That's when I notice the blue jeans I'm wearing must be getting a little smallâjust like my sweatpants. Because they're feeling awfully tight in the crotch all of a sudden.
Which is when Brad volunteers, “I could totally talk to Mr. Grant for you.”
As much as I appreciate his concern, I'm like, “What would
you
say that I can't?”
And he's like, “I don't know⦔ Dreaming up something clever. “I could always say something like, âListen, Mr. Grantâ¦My Best Friend, Jack Paternoâ¦You know, the really cute guy in your 7
th
hour Civics class? He
really
needs to get an A on his Final.'”
Something tells me I'm not gonna like where this is goingâ¦
“âIn fact,'” Brad impishly continues, “âhe's sooo desperate, he's even willing to give you a blowjob for it.'”
Okayâ¦I did
not
just hear Brad say what I thought he said, did I? Is he actually suggesting what I think he's suggesting?
“I'm not giving Mr. Grant a blowjob!” I protest emphatically. Out of fear of being overheard, I lower my tone to a hushed whisper. “I don't even know the first thing about blowjobsâ¦Giving
or
getting.”
“What's there to know?” asks Brad, full-voiced and matter-of-fact. “You just open up your mouth and suck!” Then he informs me, “If you don't wanna do it, I will.”
Okayâ¦Again, I did
not
just hear Brad say what I thought he said, did I? Is he actually suggesting what I think he's suggesting?
“You're my Best Friend since 7
th
grade,” he replies when I ask him. “I'd do
anything
to help you out.”
“But come onâ¦Would you really do something
like that?
” I can understand if Brad were to help me cheat in some way. Steal a copy of the test or something. But to have S-E-Xâ¦With a 30-year-old
guy?
Just for the sake of my being named Student of the Yearâ¦It seems like he'd be going a bit too far.
“I think it would be fun,” Brad confides. “Seducing a teacherâ¦Talk about scan-ju-lous!” By which he means “scandalous.” But ever since he saw some old Lana Turner movie with her on trial for murder, that's how he pronounces the word, don't ask me why! Then he adds, “It's not like Mr. Grant's a Total Dog or anything!”
Brad's right. They don't call him “Gorgeous George” for nothing. Still, I don't knowâ¦
“Why would Grant be interested in getting a blowjob from me?” I ask. “Of all people.”
“Come on, Jack!” he cries. “You're youngâ¦You're cuteâ¦Grant's a Big Fag.” Then he adds, “He's not gonna turn down a free blowjobâ¦Would you?” Followed by, “If you were a Big Fag, I mean?”
Brad's right. What guy in his right mind would? Still, I can just imagineâ¦Principal Messinger stops by after school to talk with Mr. Grant, only to find him sitting on his deskâtrousers around his anklesâwith the potential Student of the Year down on his knees in front of him!
“You should think about it,” he says when I express my concern. “If you don't get an A in Grant's class, Ava Reese is gonna get
your
Student of the Year Award.” He points to the wooden plaque prominently displayed on the top shelf of one of the cabinets.
In the mirrored panel behind it, the desire in my eyes reflects back at me. I imagine how my nameâJOHN R. PATERNOâwould look engraved on the gold metal plate marked “1985.” As much as I don't want to admit it, Brad's right. Even though Ava's my friend and I served as her Campaign Manager when she ran against Tom Fulton for Student Council Mayor, I'd hate to see her steal what's rightfully mineâ¦What I've been busting my ass for these past three years.
Which is why I say, “I've come this farâ¦I'd hate to blow it now.”
To which Brad replies, “Then maybe you should blow Mr. Grant, instead!”
I can't even believe I seriously consider itâfor all of about five seconds. I mean, how bad could it possibly be? I'm sure a lot of people have done a lot of worse things to get what they want in life. Why shouldn't I? Still, there's got to be a way for a boy to get an A in his Civics class other than pimping himself out to his
male
teacher. Which is what I tell Brad.
“You sure?” he asks, “I can totally stand outside Grant's room and be your lookout.”
“Thanksâ¦But I don't think that'll be necessary.” Even though I totally wanna win that award, knowing it's my one big chance to show all those Jock Jerks at Webb Junior High that I'm a Somebodyâ¦And not just some stupid Band Fag!