Band Fags! (26 page)

“How can you stick up for her like this?” I demand, turning onto the southbound service drive. “Especially with the way she treats you.” By which I mean the way Lou constantly calls out,
“Bra-yad!”
whenever she sees him in the hallways. Like she expects him to come running just because she's bellowed. “You aren't her little Slave Boy.” And with that, I pull into the Elias Brothers' parking lot.

“I'm sorry you don't like Lou anymore,” Brad tells me. “But she's the only friend I got who knows about me—besides you…And I need to stay on her good side so she doesn't start spreading rumors about me, too.”

He's probably right…Best to look out for #1…Guess I should have done the same.

Defeated I say, “I bet Luanne's happy Diane dumped me…Now she can chase after her all she wants.”

“I guess you haven't heard the latest?” Brad replies. “Guess who's taking Diane Thompson to the Christmas Dance?”

“Not Luanne!” I gasp in horror. In all the time I spent with her, Diane made it perfectly clear she wasn't interested in Lou's advances.

“Hell no!” Brad declares.

“I was gonna say…”

“Do you even wanna know?” he asks me.

“I'm gonna find out eventually,” I answer.

Brad lets out a deep breath. “None other than your boyfriend…Joey Palladino.”

My jaw practically drops to my lap.

As I sit with Brad, my 1979 pea green Dodge Omni idling in the Big Boy's parking lot on this 27° Michigan—it's-technically-not-Winter-yet-but-it-might-as-well-fucking-be—day, I feel as if all the air in my body has been sucked out by an industrial strength vacuum. It takes just about all I've got in me not to let it show on my face how totally devastated I am at this very moment.

How could this be happening? Why would Diane Thompson even want to go to the Dance with Joey? Other than the fact that he's totally hot.

“For starters,” I calmly explain to Brad, “Joey Palladino is
not
my boyfriend.” My eyes start to burn. “He never was…” My breath grows shallow. “And he never will be.” But I keep it together.

“Well, I still think he's gay,” he responds.

I say, “He is not!” Though part of me still secretly hopes he is.

Brad rolls his eyes. “But he loves The Smiths!”

“So…?” I question. “What's your point?”

“I think Joey Palladino is a Big Ol' Fag,” he surmises, “and he's trying to hide it by taking
your
ex-girlfriend to the Christmas Dance.”

Even if that were the case, Joey's been my friend for years. Why would he all of a sudden do something like this to me?

“Maybe he's getting back at you for not returning his affections,” Brad replies when I ask him this. “I mean, that's what happened…Right?” he continues. “You
didn't
return Joey's affections…Did you?”

I give Brad a look. I've heard just about enough. “You're gonna be late for work,” I remind him.

Getting the hint, he reaches for the door handle. Then he pauses. “What are you gonna do?” he asks, all concerned.

“What
can
I do?” I answer. “Deal with it, I guess.” I can only imagine things are about to get worse.

“Hang in there,” Brad tells me. Followed by, “Thanks for the ride…I'll call you later.”

I watch as Brad makes his way up the snow-covered sidewalk leading to the restaurant's front entrance where the four-foot fiberglass statue of Big Boy himself stands all decked out in his red and white checked overalls. Holding a two-foot fiberglass hamburger high above his head, he's got this totally shit-eating grin upon his cherub-cheeked face…Which makes me want to slap him!

On my way home, I pass by Nick's Pizzeria—not to be confused with Randazzo's—which is next door to Harmony House. Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of Brad's sister, Janelle, working behind the counter…Boobs and all! I can't even believe this is all she's been doing with her life since she graduated from HPHS six months ago. Though last I heard she and her boyfriend, Ted, were saving up to get a place together. Much to Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor's disapproval.

I decide last minute to take a right near Joe's Drugs at the corner of 9 Mile. Then a quick left on Carlisle behind the Library, City Hall, and the 48030 Post Office. I figure I'll drive past Joey's Grandma's house—just to see if his car's parked out front. Chances are he's probably over Diane Thompson's house anyways, making out with her…The way I used to.

This is totally my fault. If I had never taken Diane Thompson to that
Pretty in Pink
party at Ava Reese's, she and Joey would've never started talking. They certainly wouldn't be going to the Christmas Dance together! The thought of seeing them in each other's arms makes my stomach churn.

My heart leaps into my throat. Why am I so nervous? It's not like I'm going to stop or anything. Though what if I happen to see Joey as I'm passing by? Then what'll I do? I can't just ignore him. Even if he is taking Diane Thompson—who just so happens to be
my
ex-girlfriend—to the upcoming Christmas Dance, it's not like I hate him or anything…

In fact, I think I still
love
him.

Thank
God
for Betsy Sheffield!

If it weren't for her, I would've never been able to pick up the pieces of my shattered existence after Diane Thompson broke up with me. Every day since, we've had lunch together at school. Every night, we've talked on the phone. Of course, I haven't told her the
entire
circumstances pertaining to
The Demise of Jack & Diane
. I mean, I don't want Betsy thinking I'm a Total Fag, too. Though I'm surprised in all this time she hasn't heard anything from her sister, Cheri, about the similar circumstances pertaining to
The Demise of Jack & Alyssa.

The thing is…Despite the whole fiasco with Miss Resnick and my feelings for Mr. Palladino, I really do like Betsy. As in like her-like her. In that way. How could I not? She's the kind of girl I've wanted to have as a girlfriend my entire life. I've already mentioned how cute she is. And super smart. Like me, she's been a straight-A student all her life. We have a ton in common. We're practically perfect for each other.

It's been no secret that I've been interested in Betsy since the day we met during Sophomore year in 1st hour with Mrs. Malloy. Talk about a crazy woman! Not that I don't love her, 'cause I totally do. But Mrs. Malloy is the epitome of an English Teacher. She wears these half-moon reading glasses on a chain around her neck. And whenever she gets the chance, she'll perch them on the end of her nose, reading aloud to the class—totally getting off on it. Especially when it comes to Edgar Allan Poe.

I'll never forget the day Mrs. Malloy shared his poem,
The Bells
…

Like Jesus addressing his Disciples, she stood at the podium. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes before beginning. “‘Hear the sledges with the bells—'” She looked up, focusing her attention directly on Yours Truly as I was lucky enough to be sitting down front. “‘Silver bells!'” she burst out, startling me in my chair. Then to her left, “‘What a world of merriment their melody foretells!'” Then to her right, “‘How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,'” taking extra time to hit each and every T with the tip of her tongue. “‘In the icy air of night!'”

As if scanning the skies for satellites, she spoke softly now. “‘While the stars that oversprinkle/All the heavens, seem to twinkle/With a crystalline delight.'” Then faster and faster looking up at the fluorescents. “‘Keeping time, time, time,'” again with the rat-tat-tat Ts. “‘In a sort of Runic rhyme,'” now trilling the Rs. “‘To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells…'” At which point her eyes practically bulged out of her head. “‘From the bells, bells, bells, bells/Bells, bells, bells—'”

Reaching what can only be described as the Climax, Mrs. Malloy threw her head back in Total Ecstasy, panting. Then slow and steady she brought it Home. “‘From the jingling…and the tinkling…of the bells.'” I'm telling you, we all thought she totally wet herself, right then and there. That's how worked up she got…Clearly Betsy and I will ne'er forget that moment.

Actually, I've known Betsy Sheffield since long before 10
^th
grade. Or at least
known of
her. Remember my 6
^th
& 7
^th
hour Enriched English & Social Studies teacher from 7
^th
grade, Ms. Lemieux? The one whose first name happens to be Cinnamon?

Back when we were in 5
^th
grade, Ms. Lemieux would come over to the different elementary schools once a week and teach a special class for Gifted Students. One time, I distinctly remember Cinnamon telling Joey Palladino and I about this “wonderful girl” over at United Oaks named Betsy Sheffield. Of course, I immediately became intrigued. Especially once I spotted a picture of her in the monthly Hazel Park Schools newsletter and saw how cute she was!

Finally during Freshman year at Webb, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting Betsy when we were both contestants in the annual Speech Competition held over at Beecher. I remember it being a typical Michigan Winter day so I borrowed this navy blue pea coat I found in Brad's locker. Once I arrived, there she was sitting in the front row of the Auditorium…The Girl of my Dreams.

“Cool pea coat,” Betsy leaned over to whisper in my ear as I sat down beside her.

“Thanks,” I whispered back, not bothering to admit it wasn't even mine.

Then she said with a metal-mouthed smile, “You're Jackie Paterno, aren't you?”

The rest—they say—is History…

I had actually thought about looking Betsy up in the phone book at the end of Freshman year and asking her to the Carnation Dance. Especially after Brad invited Ginny What's-Her-Name. But for some reason, I figured Betsy would never remember me so I didn't bother going through with it. Then when I met up with her at the beginning of Sophomore year, we got to talking and I made mention of my plan.

To which Betsy replied
sans
hesitation, “You should have asked me…I would've totally gone with you.” Which resulted in my mentioning my fondness for Betsy to Audrey. At which point, Good Old Aud thought she'd do me a favor by mentioning my infatuation with Betsy—
to Betsy.
Unfortunately, the feeling wasn't mutual and Betsy started giving me the cold shoulder so I'd get the hint. Luckily, I managed to straighten things out with her and we were able to continue being friends.

In addition to 4
^th
hour French II with Mrs. Carey, Betsy and I also have 3
^rd
hour Advanced Alegbra/Trig together this semester. The running joke in class about our teacher, Mr. Borjes, is…his accent. For instance, he calls me “Jacques.” Though he's not French; he's from Ecuador. Apparently, he also can't say the word “focus.” Which in math is “a fixed point whose relationship with a directrix determines a conic section.” I'm told if he attempted to, it would come out sounding more like “fuckus.” Even if you beg and plead for him to tell you what the thing represented by the letter F is called, Mr. Borjes will get angry and say, “No! I'm-a not-a gonna say it.” In his cute little accent, a perpetual twinkle in his eye.

The thing about Mr. Borjes is…He might look like this tiny little bald man with a goatee and glasses who always wears a three-piece suit. But he can be a Total Powerhouse once you get him going. Believe me, I know!

The Friday before Christmas vacation starts, we're sitting in class waiting for Mr. Borjes to begin his lecture on sine (sin) and cosine (cos), tangent (tan) and cotangent (cot), secant (sec) and cosecant (csc). Of course, Betsy and I are the only ones
really
waiting, as per usual. The rest of our class is too busy goofing around.

“Okay…I'n-a gonna teach you now,” Mr. Borjes calls out over the infernal racket. When that doesn't work, he walks right up to Kristian Alfonso look-alike Marie Sperling's boyfriend, and says, “Hey, Kid…”

Tom Fulton looks up from the last seat in the center row. “Yes, Mr. Borjes,” he replies, a silver halo mysteriously appearing round his flippy-haired head.

“Shut up.” And with that, Mr. Borjes returns to the board.

Of course, all Tom's Jock Jerk Friends start hooting and howling as he tries his best to remain unembarrassed. But the color of his face soon rivals the red Adidas sweatshirt worn by Junior Class Secretary, Varsity Cheerleader, and Staff Reporter on
The Hazel Parker,
Jamieleeann Mary Sue Good, aka Jamie for short. For once, it makes me happy to see Tom Fulton on the receiving end of such razzing. Can you believe, despite being a guest at my Sweet Sixteen party six months ago, that Asshole hasn't said a word to me all semester? Just wait till I'm a Famous Writer someday and he's still stuck working in Hazeltucky!

Never one to resist a pretty girl, Mr. Borjes can't help but pause a moment at Jamie's desk, where she sits in front of Shelly “What's up, Fox?” Findlay. Who this year—I should probably point out—has taken to spelling her name S-H-E-L-L-E-E, don't ask me why! Nodding and smiling, he greets them. “And-a how are-a you?”

To which Shellee replies sweetly, “I'm fine, Mr. Borjes…How are you?”

“Good, good,” he answers, ear-to-ear grin. At which point, he looks down at Jamie's chest. Though not for the reason you might think. Mr. Borjes is far from being a Dirty Old Man. “What's-a that?” he asks, referring to the white logo printed across the front of her sweatshirt. Then he slowly spells out exactly what he sees…“A-D-I-D-A-S.”

Jamie grins. “Adidas,” she informs the South American mathematician. Surely Mr. Borjes has to be familiar with Adidas. He's got two teenaged sons—both rumored to be totally hot.

“Yes, I can-a read.” His gray eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “But what-a means this, Adidas?” he wonders innocently.

“It's a brand name,” Shellee Findlay chimes in, coming to her Best Friend's rescue. “They make shoes, and clothes, and stuff.”

From the back of the room, Tom Fulton's hand shoots up. “Ooh, Mr. Borjes…Ooh, ooh!” à la Horshack from
Welcome Back, Kotter.
“You know what Adidas stands for, Mr. Borjes?”

To which Mr. Borjes turns his attention to Tom for a moment, saying, “Kid…Shut up.” And with that, he looks back to Jamie. “You-a gonna tell me or-a what?”

Perishing the thought of having to say it out loud, Jamie stands up to whisper in Mr. Borjes ear. Which immediately causes Mr. Borjes to lurch back, shrieking, “Don't you-a touch me!”

The whole class bursts into hysterics, while Jamie does her best to inform him, “I won't touch you, Mr. Borjes, I promise…I'm just gonna whisper in your ear.”

Mr. Borjes gives her a look, eyebrows raised. “What-a for?”

Shellee Findlay answers, “It's a secret, Mr. Borjes,” once more coming to her cohort's aid.

“Really?” he replies, beaming. “Why didn't you-a say so? I like-a secrets.”

As we all watch in silence, Jamie puts her hand to her mouth. Then she leans in. “Pss Pss Pss Pss Pss-pss Pss.”

If only you could see the reaction Mr. Borjes gives her…Brow furrowed, head tilted to one side, looking down his nose. “All Day You-a Dream About-a
What
?”

“Pss Pss Pss,” Jamie whispers again, spelling it out letter by letter.

To which Mr. Borjes exclaims, “All Day You-a Dream About-a S-E-X?!” Spelling the word out. Like he's totally appalled. Though we can all see him suppressing a giggle, shaking his head as he returns to his post as Head of the Class.

Not more than five minutes after we've returned to the topic of Trigonometry, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Reaching up ever so discreetly, I take the folded up piece of yellow notebook paper from Carrie Johnson who sits behind me.

Hunching over my desk, I promptly jot down my response.

Then I secretly pass the note back to Betsy via our go-between, Carrie. All the while, I can hear Mr. Borjes going on and on at the front of the room, his back to us, totally unaware.

But as I refold the slip of paper and get ready to make the drop, I feel a Presence at my side. It seems that Mr. Borjes has stopped teaching whatever it is he's been teaching and is now looming over my desk.

“Jacques,” he says with a smile. “What do you-a think you're a doing?”

“Uh-oh,” I hear Tom Fulton drone from his perch. “Busted!” Followed by the snickers of his crony Jock Jerk Friends.

You can probably imagine the horror I experience getting caught doing something a straight-A student is not expected to be doing. But the next thing out of my mouth are the words, “I'm writing.” Though I have no idea where the Hell they came from!

Maybe it's because I'm really a Bad Ass deep down inside. Or maybe it's because—after weeks and weeks of begging and pleading—I've finally convinced Betsy Sheffield to go to the Christmas Dance with me and I'm trying to impress her. Or maybe it's because I'm hoping to prove something to Tom Fulton and all his Jock Jerk Friends by showing them I'm really
not
such a Goody-Goody.

Judging from the blank look on Mr. Borjes face, this is not the response he had anticipated either. “And-a what are-a you-a writing?” he asks, growing stern. Meanwhile, the entire class has fallen silent, waiting to see what happens next to Mr. Straight-A Student.

The answer I come up with is simply, “Words.”

At which point, Mr. Borjes has heard enough. “Words?!” he shrieks, all high-pitched. “That's what you're-a doing in-a my class? Writing
words?
”

Not used to being on the receiving end of such hostility, I don't know what else to say…So I say nothing.

“If you wanna write-a words,” Mr. Borjes continues, “I'm-a not gonna stop-a you.” Then he rips the yellow paper from my hand, tears it into pieces, and scatters it about his shiny little head like confetti. “Now get out!” And with that, he shows me the door.