Band Fags! (25 page)

“If Marcy Walker from
Santa Barbara
can wear a tux to the Emmy Awards,” Lou reasoned, “why the fuck can't I wear a fucking suit to Homecoming?”

Speaking of awkward…

Making out with Diane in her room, I don't know what's up. Well, actually I do. By which I mean Down There. Based on the way things are going at this moment, I think I could totally do It with her. By which I mean have S-E-X. Though for some reason, every time we start and I think she wants to, Diane puts the brakes on. Like right now. Here I am, totally hot and bothered…And what does she do?

“We should probably head over to Ava's, don't you think?”

“What's the rush?” I ask, having just reached my hand up under her sweater.

“They're gonna start the movie without us,” Diane worries as I continue going for the old bra clasp. “We're supposed to be there at 4 o'clock.”

“It's a video,” I remind her. “We can rent it sometime ourselves.” And with that, I've worked my Magic and set the Puppies free. Let me tell you…Thank God Diane's got the kind of areolas that don't gross me out.

At that moment, she slaps my hand away. “Stop!” Then she rises from the bed, sounding totally annoyed. “Now look what you've done.” She heads over to her dresser and begins fixing herself in the mirror on the wall above. Meanwhile, I adjust my steadily deflating goods.

“What's your problem?” I ask, speaking more to Diane's reflection than to her actual self.

“I already told you,” she tells me, re-glossing her lips. “I'm not having sex with you.”

Again, as much as I'm opposed to the Pressure that is Peer, doesn't Diane realize she could be my
one
chance at Salvation? In all the experiences I've had with a girl—and we know how few and far between they've been—Diane Thompson's the only one I've ever felt I could actually do It with. By which I mean
physically.
And here she is, totally rejecting me.

Diane snaps off the light, leaving me in the dark. “Are you coming or what?” Apparently I
won't
be anytime soon!

Nothing but bright sun and blue sky on this mid-October afternoon. A warm gentle breeze rustles the fallen leaves crunching beneath our feet. Their pungent aroma totally reminds me of being a kid. I remember me and my sister spending what seemed like hours raking our entire backyard, gathering each and every Oak, Maple, and Elm into one humongous pile right in the middle. After taking a flying leap, we'd cover ourselves from head to toe in Fall Foliage. Buried alive, we'd lie together enjoying the cool stillness. Not saying a word. Jodi and Jack. Not brother and sister who barely spend any time together anymore. But as Friends.

Arriving at Ava Reese's, we find the entire block of College between West End and Wanda lined with autos. Most are of the late '70s variety, a common denominator among the Band Fag Clique…Except for the brand spanking new black '86 Fiero parked in Ava's driveway.

“Isn't that Joey Palladino's car?” asks Diane of the Sweet Sixteen/Sorry-I-Divorced-Your-Mom gift Joey got from his Kmart's Executive father up in Clarkston.

“What the Hell's he doing here?” I wonder aloud. “This is supposed to be a Band Fags Only party.”

“I'm not a Band Fag and I'm here,” Diane reminds me. Which is totally different and beside the point.

Just when I thought any feelings I might have for Joey Palladino were long gone and forgotten, now I've got to walk through that door and face them all over again. In a matter of minutes, our paths will cross. Our worlds will collide, bringing us face to face for the first time in I don't know how long…
What am I going to do?

“Come on in,” Ava calls out after I've knocked twice and opened her front door.

The living room is wall-to-wall Band Fags. Like Sally from
Romper Room,
I see Ava and Carrie and Jenny and Joe and Michael and Barb and Erin and Mandi. Who I
don't
see is Brad and—thank God—Luanne…Or the aforementioned Joey Palladino.

“There's pop in the fridge,” Ava announces. “Help yourselves…We're starting the movie in like ten minutes.”

Before Diane and I begin navigating our way through the Sea of Band Fags, I ask, “Where's Mr. Dayton?”

“Out back
smoking,
” Carrie reports, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Is he by himself?” I ask, trying to sound oh-so casual.

“What do you think?” Ava replies. “He's with Herr Drum Major.” Which is what Lou's decided all the Band Fags should call her from now on.

Strike One!

“And with Joey Palladino,” Carrie throws in, sounding a little overly enthusiastic.

Strike Two!

Turning to Ava I ask, “Why'd you invite
him?
” As if it's any of my business.

“I didn't,” she answers. “He showed up with Lou and Brad.”

Strike Three…You're out!

I can totally imagine Luanne cozying up to Joey, trying to pump him for information she could use against me. Though I don't know why I'm so worried. Joey and I have been friends for how many years? It's not like he's going to stab me in the back or anything.

At that moment, the side door opens, accompanied by the sound of raucous laughter. I distinctly smell pine trees. Sure enough, Joey appears in the doorway with Brad and Luanne.

“Jack…What's up?”

The sound of my name falling from his lips stops me dead in my tracks.

Sunshine.

Cherries.

Chocolate.

In an instant, everything I've achieved these past six weeks—everything I've fought for—is completely undone…

I've fallen and I can't get up!

I'm
totally
pissed!

Jamming the gold-colored key into the not-quite-frozen lock on the door of my 1979 pea green Dodge Omni, I give it a forceful turn, praying it doesn't break off. The black faux-leather seat sends a shiver up my spine the minute I climb in and sit myself down, causing me to jam the exact same gold-colored key into the silver ignition on the black molded-plastic steering column. Then I crank it.

The most disturbing SHRIEK erupts from the engine. Like metal scraping metal. The more-than-several warnings I've gotten from my Dad these past three months remind me that this is a bad thing. The “alternator,” he calls it. What it's for or why it does this when I get impatient and do what I just did, I have no idea. But I can't help it right now, I'm so angry.

Guess I should probably tell you…After a mere six weeks of what I
thought
was Boyfriend/Girlfriend Bliss, Diane Thompson dropped me like a Hot Potato. All thanks to my Arch Nemesis, aka Luanne Kowalski.

I should've known something was up. I explicitly told Diane that 3:30 to 4:30 PM is my
Days of our Lives
time and never to disturb me unless it's an Emergency. Eve was right on the brink of revealing to Shane that she's really his daughter from his first wife, Emma, and not just some runaway. “Can I call you back?”

“It can't wait,” she insisted.

“Twenty minutes,” I promised. Maybe fifteen, what with fast-forwarding through the commercials.

“We need to talk, Jack…Now.”

I paused the VCR. I knew full well what “We need to talk” meant. Especially in the world of High School Romance…
We're breaking up.

I gave Diane my full attention, clinging to her every word, trying not to get too pissed. Her reasons were totally ridiculous. “Who you gonna believe?” I asked once she finished. “Me or Lou?”

“I don't know
who
to believe anymore,” she admitted.

“I already told you…I'm not—”

“That's what you
say
,” she said, “but Luanne says different.” I found this hard to believe coming from the girl I'd been totally trying to have
sex
with just two days earlier right here on my bed. “She told me you went to the bar with her and Brad.”

“So what? That doesn't make me a fag!” I knew I should've never let Brad talk me into going out that night with him and Lou. Now it had come back to bite me on the ass. Who the Hell does Luanne Kowalski think she is?!

To top it all off, today I found out she's been going around school telling anybody who'll listen that the
real
reason Diane broke up with me is because I'm gay. Though I'm sure she didn't bother to mention that the reason she
thinks
she knows this is because she herself is, too. It's one thing to let me and Brad and Cheri and Alyssa in on her secret. But to share it with the entire Hillbilly High Student Body? Somehow I doubt she'd ever do that. After all, Lou doesn't want everybody hating
her,
now does she?

I blast the heat, allowing the engine to warm up just enough so it's drivable. God, I hate Winter! How can this be the place where Betsy Sheffield and I spent our days learning to operate a motor vehicle a mere four and a half months ago? No more hot yellow sun beating on warm blacktopped pavement. No more leafy green trees against bright blue sky backdrop. Now everything's gone gray—with a little white tossed in for good measure.

Speaking of Betsy Sheffield…

I get in line to exit the parking lot, pulling up behind the 1980 silver Chevy Vega she got for her Sweet Sixteen back on November 14
^th
. Betsy waves and smiles at me in her rearview mirror. But being that I'm totally pissed at the moment, I pretend not to notice her. Instead, I focus my attention on the black rubber wrapped around my steering wheel. My Dad insisted he put the covering on the minute he gave me
la voiture.
Which is French for “car,” in case it isn't obvious. I begin tapping a gloved hand in time to the beat of Jesse Johnson's “Get to Know Ya” off the
Pretty in Pink
soundtrack. I don't think I've listened to anything else since I picked it up at Harmony House a couple weeks ago…By the way, the movie was awesome!

Now if there's one thing I've learned, being ignored is something that does not bode well with Betsy Sheffield. Despite the frigid temperature outside, she rolls down her window, sticks her head out, and yells at me. Though I can't exactly hear what she's hollering over my booming back speakers. I have to lower the volume and roll down my window as well.

Betsy screams over her shoulder, “Jacques!” Which is what she's taken to calling me on account of that's how our 3
^rd
hour Advanced Algebra/Trig teacher, Mr. Borjes, pronounces my name. “What the Hell's your problem?”

I say, “What?” As in,
What are you talking about?
Because I have no trouble hearing her question. In fact, I bet they can hear Betsy all the way down the block and across the street over at the Blue Building. Which is what we Hazeltucky Folk call the Board of Education building on the corner of Hughes and Felker across from Hillbilly High, on account of why? It's a
building
and it's
blue
. I know, not very original. But we're a simple people, really.

The next thing I know, Betsy abandons her vehicle. I watch as she struggles to tie the belt of her long wool coat—or is it tweed?—tight around her waist, Treetorns slip-sliding away in the snow. “Too good to say hello?” she sternly demands, leaning into my window.

So much for INXS' “Do Wot You Do!” I turn my radio all the way down and mumble, “Sorry…”

“Why are you ignoring me?” Betsy barks.

Because I'm starting to get cold, what with the gusts of snow blowing into my car and all. I tell her, “Brad's waiting for me to pick him up in the Band Room and give him a ride to work.” I can totally hear his voice in my head cursing,
Today!

“Well, Brad Dayton is just gonna have to wait.”

I'm at a loss for words. I have no idea why Betsy is in such a bad mood. She's not usually like this. Till all of a sudden, she cracks a huge smile and cries, “Psyche!” Which in Hazeltucky means, “Just joking.” It's one of those slang-things, right up there with referring to having sex as “Getting some gravy.” Or Shelly Findlay's “What's up, Fox?” Being that Shelly and Betsy are on Varsity Cheerleading together, Betsy probably picked it up from her.

“I'll call you later, okay?” I tell her.

“You better,” she replies. Then she smirks and skulks away.

If I didn't know better, I'd think Betsy Sheffield was flirting with me. But that can't possibly be the case. She made it perfectly clear over the Summer that she wants us to be Just Friends…I wonder if maybe she's changed her mind?

I pull around to the opposite side of the school where Brad's been waiting since 3:15 PM. Thank God they came through with the snowplows already or he'd be late for his shift at Big Boy's for sure.

“Look,” he informs me the minute he climbs in my car and I bring up the subject of Luanne Kowalski and what she's done. “I really don't wanna get stuck in the middle of this.”

To which I inform him, “Too bad…You are.”

Brad avoids my gaze, slipping into his seat belt, staring straight ahead. “I'm friends with you both,” he reminds me, “so I'm kinda in a difficult position…You know what I mean?”

I play my Trump card. “But who have you known longer?” Then I drive away, past the snow-covered tennis courts. Beyond the frozen football field lies a vast wasteland. No Band Fags marching today.

“Careful, Jack!”

I almost overlook the red and white octagon on the corner of Tucker, halting rather abruptly across from Hoover School. “Sorry…”

The way Brad braces himself against the dashboard totally reminds me of my Mom. She'd do the exact same thing whenever we'd take Family Vacations together and my Dad's driving didn't comply with her standards. “I'd like to make it to work alive,” he says all snarky.

I can tell he's trying to avoid the issue. So I say, “You
have
to take my side on this one.” Then I burst out, “Come on!” Only I'm directing my anger at some Kindergarten Babies crossing the street, all bundled up in their Arctic Snow gear, taking their Sweet Old Time. What would happen if I accidentally-on-purpose let my foot slip off the break at this moment? Hmmm…I wonder.

“You did kinda steal Diane away from Lou,” Brad informs me, erasing the terrible thought from my mind.

“I did not!” I make the left turn, hand-over-hand turning the wheel. Then for added emphasis, I abruptly STOP at the next corner.

Brad braces himself against the dash, yet again. “Well, Lou saw her first,” he says, trying to sound reasonable.

“Bullshit!” I exclaim, putting pedal to the metal, radials spinning. “We were all sitting at the exact same Pep Rally in the exact same Gym.”

“Well,” Brad stammers. “It was Lou's idea to go over and talk to Diane in the cafeteria.”

I hit the brake at the corner of Vassar, two blocks away. The front end of the Omni starts skidding on the ice and we almost end up on the curb. “Damn it!”

“Would you get off this fucking side street?” my passenger begs me. “You're freaking me out
and
making me nauseous.”

I take another left, follow Vassar down to 9 Mile where Brad's former place of employment looms, an ever-present thread in the fabric of Hazeltucky. How fitting is it that high atop the neon “Country Boy” sign, a Huck Finn look-alike spins round and round in straw hat and bandana neckerchief? Hillbilly High, indeed!

Looking out the window, Brad groans. “Get me the Hell away from this place.”

I turn right on 9 Mile…But there's no way I'm letting Brad off the hook on this matter. “So what if Lou saw Diane first?” I say. “
I'm
the one who asked her out.”

To which Brad says, “Lou says
she
thinks the only reason you asked Diane Thompson out in the first place is because you knew it would piss her off.”

Which is kind of true…

Still, after a moment I reply, “It's not
my
fault Diane's not a dyke…And even if she was, there's no guarantee she'd even be interested in Luanne.”

“Lou also says,” Brad reiterates, “
she
thinks Diane is confused and you only made it worse by being a Total Closet Case yourself.”

Which is sooo not true!

#1—Diane is
not
confused. She likes boys. #2—Lou can't stand the fact that just like Alyssa, the Object of Her Affection was more into
me
than her. And #3—I am not a Closet Case. Unlike Mr. Klan who Lou has started calling “KKK,” as in Kloset Kase Klan.

“I asked Diane Thompson to go with me because I liked her,” I tell Brad.

Which is true.

“Are you sure?” he questions, sounding more like the Voice of Lou than my so-called Best Friend. “I mean, it's not like you guys even had anything in common.”

Outside my window, I notice Mauro's Dairy Queen and Mini-Golf all closed up for the Season. In a flash of memory, I see my maroon and white polyester-uniformed self, age 10. Along with the rest of my Kraft Services teammates, I gaze up at the menu board—
Dilly Bar or Jack 'n Jill sundae
?—after an exhausting Little League match against Hazel Park Bowl. Though honestly, how tired can one Benchwarmer possibly get?

Brad says, “You haven't been very nice to Luanne since she told you she's a lesbian…”

Up ahead on the corner sits the Hazel Park Memorial Library. I remember me and Joey Palladino spending many a Saturday afternoon there with the likes of
The Boxcar Children
and
Super Fudge.
Hard to believe a time ever existed when all we wanted was to turn 11 so we could finally venture upstairs into the Adult Fiction section. Now here I am, Sweet Sixteen already…How did I get to be so old?

“It seems like you really
don't
like Lou anymore,” continues Brad, pulling me out of my reverie.

“Being a dyke has nothing to do with why I don't like Lou,” I tell him. “I don't like her because she's a Total Bitch…And now that she's Drum Major, she thinks she's the boss of Marching Band.”

Brad laughs. “She sorta is…You know what I mean?”

As we cross John R, I pull into the left turn lane and wait for the green arrow. Below us, a pre-Rush Hour river of orangered winds its way north-south along I-75. I can't even believe this is the exact same spot—right by the Gas 'n Go—where just a little over a year ago Brad and I drove by with Luanne and Alyssa on our very first trip out to the Tombs. So much has happened since then. I feel like a totally different person. More grown up, somehow. I guess what's disappointing is…I always thought Lou would end up being a Good Friend. For a little while there, it seemed like she was. Not anymore.