Girl Mans Up (27 page)

A WEEK LATER, ON THE THURSDAY OF THE ST.
Peter's anniversary, Blake calls at lunch.

“So, what time are you guys going to the celebration tonight?” I ask.

“It starts at seven. My dad's driving me there at six because Olivia wants to be there super early to make sure everything
goes smoothly,” she says. “But I don't want to go without you.”

“You have to,” I say.

“Has Olivia told you what she's up to?”

“No,” I say. “And that's why you have to make sure to be there.”

Olivia can't be alone for that. I'll be there, but I'll be hiding outside, keeping an eye out for trouble. I doubt Colby and Garrett will show up tonight—this so isn't their scene—but guaranteed that crap will end up online so fast.

“I know, I know. I wouldn't miss this for anything,” Blake says. “Plus, my parents are coming to see our work.”

“I'm going to need you to describe the look on everyone's faces when they see the photos. Especially Mr. Middleton.”

“I will,” she says. “We're still on for tomorrow night?”

“For sure. You're coming over, we're making tacos, then we're playing video games. And Johnny's going out, so . . . you know.”

There's a knock at the door, which is weird. Johnny's at work, and I haven't had to answer the door here yet. I tell Blake I'll text her in a bit. The knock comes again, so I go answer it.

My mom's in her going-out clothes, and her cheeks and nose are red the way they usually are when she's out in the cold for more than two minutes. My dad's not with her. She's holding one of my old backpacks.

“I talk to school lady today,” she says.

“Oh.”

“The lady said you can go to party-time at school today. The lady tell me Mr. Middle say good things, so you go and say thank you to the man.”

“Really? I can go tonight?”

Mom nods while she stands there in the hallway, the bulky bag held tight against her waist. Relief washes over me, knowing I'll be right there for Olivia's photo revenge.

“You like the girls?” Mom asks, and as if she thinks I might not have understood what she meant, she goes, “You kiss the girls? That's okay. That's okay. You don't need the boy clothes. You don't need cut you beautiful hair. You can kiss the girl and be a nice girl. It's okay.”

“That's not why I'm not a
princesa
,” I tell her. “It's not about that. They don't go together.” I liked boy stuff before I knew I was into girls, so I don't think one caused the other. I'm pretty sure that's not how it works. “I'm the way I am because that's how I am. That's it.”

“It's okay if you want to be . . .
lésbica
,” she says.
“Seu prima é uma.”

“You're not listening, Ma. I dress like this because I like it. It's how I'm supposed to look, even if I'm not kissing anybody,” I say, but then it's like my brain's only now processing the last thing she said. “Wait—which cousin is a lesbian? Melissa?”

She shrugs like that wasn't the point, but I so know it's gotta be Melissa. She's thirty and she lives with a girl she calls her “roommate.” I barely know her because she's from my mom's side, and a lot of that side's still in Portugal.

I take a few steps back so Mom can step forward and take this whole scene out of the hallway where the neighbors can hear. She makes it as far as the welcome mat, and the door closes behind her.

“I try my best, Penelope,” Mom says. “When you small one, small baby, you always want you
irmão
. Always
Johnny this, Johnny that
.”

“He's a good guy,” I say. “He's the best guy.”

She sighs, and it takes her a moment to finally nod along, like she's not totally sure she wants to agree with me.

“You can tell people you kicked me out,” I say. Eventually my parents will have to explain to the rest of the family that Johnny and I are gone; them having kicked their bad kids out to teach them a lesson is going to come off a whole lot better than admitting both of your kids decided to walk out.

We look at each other for a minute. She hands me the bag before nodding and turning around to open the door. In the bag are some pants, some shirts, a pair of skater shoes, my cologne, and other products. Lots of underwear and socks. I think that maybe, if she came here with this bag, she must've expected to be leaving it with me and going home empty-handed.

I'm full of bad feelings.

Not because I feel guilty, or because I regret what I've done, though. It's like I keep telling Olivia when she thinks about the abortion: it's okay to feel bad about how things went down, but it's not okay to drown in guilt and regret every day for having made decisions other people don't agree with. At some point, we all have to man up and decide to do what we have to do, despite the people around us who try to get in the way.

THE LECTURE HALL HAS
been completely pimped out for this twenty-fifth-anniversary thing: streamers, big
confetti-looking things hanging from the ceiling, and fancy lighting that makes this place look nothing like St. Peter's. The only people in the hall this early are teachers and the other photo reps working on their displays. There are four stations set up in different areas of the hall, one for each grade. I look around, waiting for my group to arrive. I sort of didn't tell them I was coming, just in case my mom misunderstood and I end up getting kicked out by a teacher. I spot Mr. Middleton fiddling with an extension cord, so I make my way over.

“I'm glad to see you, Pen,” he says, giving me this knowing smile.

“Yeah, thanks for whatever you said. I didn't really want to miss tonight.”

“No problem. And you're looking very sharp this evening.”

“You too, sir.”

“That looks painful,” he says, pointing to my chin.

“It is. Been taking a lot of Tylenol.”

“Better get to work. Good luck tonight,” he says.

My phone vibrates against my butt so I drift away. It's a text from Blake telling me to get over to the grade-twelve hallway bathrooms. Guess she must've spotted me. I cut through the back exit and head over.

She jumps me when I push the door open.

“You did not tell me you were coming! What's wrong with you?” she says.

We eat each other's faces until I whine in pain.

“Can you maybe try to stay toward the right side of my mouth?” I say, and she palms my chin. “And do you think you
could maybe lend me some of that skin-colored stuff? Do you think it would hide the red?”

“You're going to let me put makeup on you?” she says, wagging her eyebrows.

“Only to cover this up.”

I give her a once-over: She's wearing these tight black pants that really look like another layer of shiny skin, and her shirt is super flowy and silky and goes all the way down past her butt. And her shoes—

“Babe, your heels are seriously hot.”

“These are pumps.” She extends her foot to show me the side. “Rockabilly-style, platform Mary Jane pumps encrusted with rhinestones.”

“I don't even know what that means,” I say. “Your parents buy you this stuff?”

She laughs. “As if. My parents think I dress like a freak. I buy my own clothes, or else I'd be stuck wearing . . .”

“Wearing what?”

“What Olivia's wearing.” She clenches her teeth in a wince. “Not that there's anything wrong with it. It's just so not me.”

“Yeah, I totally feel you,” I say.

“So? How are you here tonight? What happened?”

I tell her about my mom working tonight out with the school, and Mr. Middleton having something to do with it. Blake thinks my mom's all of a sudden chilled out, and I let her think that.

“No more talking.” I hook my finger in hers and lead her to the accessible stall, which I lock. She doesn't even try to stop
me when I pull her shirt off, so I don't stop her when she slides her hands under the back of mine.

“Let's ditch tonight,” I whisper. “Let's go somewhere.”

“Don't be a horny jerk. Tonight is important,” she says, but then she undoes my belt, so I slide her tight pants down a couple inches. “We have about ten minutes until we absolutely have to get to the lecture hall. Olivia will be freaking out if she's by herself.”

I pull away with a thought. “You know this isn't all I like doing with you, right?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I don't want you to think all I'm into is this stuff. I want to do everything with you. I think you're smart, and so fun, and—” She covers my mouth, but I manage to push out the word “gaming.”

“Me too, Pen, but,” she says, “this stuff is really good, and we only have ten minutes and I'm not even wearing a shirt right now so—”

“Oh totally. I'm shutting up now.”

This is so wrong, because there's a toilet right next to us, but damn.

THE COVER-UP IS A
tad orange for my skin tone, but it's better than blotchy red. We head for our station. Olivia tries to get all girly-excited when she sees me, as though she thinks I'll start hopping in place and clapping my hands right along with her. Instead, I try to fist-bump her, which makes Blake laugh.

“We have work to do, Team Three,” Olivia says.

“So?” Blake says to Olivia, totally the opposite of subtle. “Anything . . .
unexpected
we should be, you know, expecting?”

“No,” Olivia says. “Nothing you need to be concerned with.”

Now Blake and I are staring at each other wide-eyed, but Olivia turns her back to us.

We've uploaded our pics onto Mr. Middleton's main flash drive, and the slide show will play on a loop on the TV-sized monitor at each station. We also have a portfolio with our series of photos printed out. Blake made a sign with the description of the concept for our photo diary, and a shorter version of it shows up at the start of our slide show. When I glance around the hall at the other stations, it's pretty obvious ours is the best. Lots of pics are cool, but ours say something with each shot. It really does win everything.

As soon as we're done double-checking that everything works fine, Olivia starts obsessing. “But what if the slide show glitches? Or what if someone steals the portfolio!” she says, keeping a hand on the album. “It's so good that you're here, Pen. We can take shifts to guard this with our lives. I'll go first.”

Blake pulls out her phone and holds it up to take a picture of her. Olivia makes a face and puts her hands on her hips. “I'm putting this little maniac on Instagram,” Blake says.

With less than ten minutes until everything officially begins, the place is getting packed. There's a registration table manned by a group of grade-nine kids who tick people off the list and hand out name tags. One of them must be “Team Pen” because she can't look at me without blushing, and she giggles. I wink at her, just for fun.

There are slide shows projected on the wall with all kinds of photos from the last twenty-five years at St. Peter's. I linger there for a bit because it seems like the students from years ago look way older than we do. And they have really weird hairstyles. I keep hoping to see some pics of Johnny come up, but the most I get is a shot of Dom in the background. Blake pulls me along through the crowd, which is made up of a lot of people from school, but also a lot of older people I don't recognize, because anyone who ever attended St. Peter's was invited tonight. Everyone's so dressed up, which makes me glad I went for black cargo pants, my school shoes, and a black skater polo shirt with a designer zip skater hoodie. This is me, as cleaned up as I get.

Thirty minutes into the event, the principal hasn't even looked at me. That's good. Then finally, Johnny walks in with Dom.

“Hey, dude,” Tristan says from behind me.

“Hey,” I say. Trent is next to him, so I give him a nod. “What are you doing here?”

Tristan laughs. “Well, duh. We came to see your project.”

“Really?” I snap fingers with him.

“Pen's the one who introduced me to Masters of Crimson,” Tristan says to Trent, who then nods all impressed. When I flash Tristan a confused expression, he smacks my arm. “You're the one who got me the first book in the series for my ninth birthday—you don't remember?”

“Not even a little bit.” I try for a look of apology. “Johnny probably picked it out. I never know what to get people for their
birthdays,” I say. “Anyway, you guys should come stand by our booth.”

“Cool,” Tristan says.

I lead them through the crowd. When we get there, I lean my head close so only Tristan can hear. “Have you seen Colby here tonight?”

“Nah. They're not coming to this. They're in Toronto to meet some girls or something.”

“All right, cool.”

There's a silent auction going on along one of the walls, and there's a raffle for prizes. Each time Mr. Middleton goes to pick out winners for the raffle, he finishes by introducing one of the projects. That's when one of the series of photos gets displayed on the massive screen hanging above the podium. Most people in the crowd turn their heads toward the projection screen to, at least, watch the first few photos. Turns out some of the other reps are pretty decent photographers. One guy turned his photos into comic book panels; one of the girls distorted the images so that only one element is clear and focused.

But when ours comes up, though—people can't help but pay attention. Our words make it impossible to look away. I glance at Johnny, standing at the very back, and he gives me a thumbs-up.

“Wow,” Blake says. “It's way more righteous on the big screen.”

The three of us start making our way through the people, headed for Tristan and Trent, who stand closer to the front. Tristan's mouth is open, his eyes all wide with amazement, and he points at the screen while catching my gaze.