Girl Mans Up (5 page)

AFTER SCHOOL ON MONDAY, IT'S JUST COLBY AND
me at the mall food court. In front of Colby are two deluxe bacon combos with extra fries and cheese sauce. I have a regular bacon combo with eight packets of ketchup.

I wonder if Blake told Robyn about me. If there was anything to tell.

“What?” Colby says, nudging me with his elbow.

“Nothing, why?”

“Because you're acting like Tristan,” he says, “all fidgety and annoying.”

I shrug. I must be doing something to make it obvious there's a tiny Blake tickling my brain.

“Did you watch 8Bit Destruction's new video yet?” I ask Colby.

“Damn,” he says, hitching his chin to the left, totally ignoring what I asked. “Check out that girl. I'd ask you to go work your magic, but . . . well, you know. You're kind of useless now.” The word replays in my head,
useless
. Just because Blake won't fall for his crap suddenly makes me useless? Not that it happens often, but the girl doesn't always take the bait, and I've never been considered useless for it.

Colby dips a wad of fries in cheese sauce and he says, “You should come over Saturday. We can smoke. Garrett's hooking us up.”

“I'll see what my mom says. She's been extra bitchy lately.”

“I already told him to lay off you and Tristan,” he says, “so don't get your panties in a bunch.”

“Man, why are you saying stuff like that to me? Seriously, dude.”

“I'm just messing with you because
you've
been extra bitchy lately, Pen,” he says, and then he laughs.

“If anyone's been . . . anything lately, it's you.”

“What? What have I been like?” The way he's looking at me—it makes me regret bringing this up because—what if he thinks I'm talking about that night? I do not want to talk about that.

“You've been weird about this Olivia stuff,” I say, not that I meant to come out with that either, but it's a butt-load better than the alternative. “Like one second nothing's going on, and the next you're ready to lose it on her.” He stares ahead, his brow heavy. I should probably drop it, but—“I thought . . . I mean, you guys hooked up for what—a week?”

“So?”

“So . . .” I hate the nervousness that's sparking in my gut right now. It feels like I should've never brought anything up. Questioning Colby is always a stupid move. “Well . . . you knew it was her mom's car that day.”

“And?”

“And maybe it wasn't just a week of hooking up?” I say.

His jaw clenches, and he finally turns to look at me. It makes me back up just a little. “You're talking to her.”

“I'm not!”

“You're listening to her shit then. Same thing.”

“She hasn't said anything to me, but I'm not stupid. Something's up, and you're keeping it a secret.”

“Keeping secrets? Seriously, dude? Spare me the girl talk,” he says, which makes me crush the fry between my fingers. “Besides, what I do is my business anyway. Unless I ask you for something, you don't need to try to worm your way into my shit, got it?”

I sigh and watch the mangled fry between my fingers until the hanging part breaks off. This Blake stuff felt like keeping secrets, something he'd be pissed about. But maybe that can just be my business. Maybe he can just leave it all alone unless I ask him for something. I wish that's how it worked.

“Whatever that girl says about me, it's bull. And if she keeps on trying to mess with me,” he says, and I stare back at him with his weirded-out expression, waiting for him to finish, “well . . . anyway. She is no longer my problem. I already told you she doesn't exist anymore, so drop it. I'm serious, Pen.”

It looks like he's about to say something else, but then his face changes. He pulls his shoulders up and ditches his second burger. “Guess I don't need you anyway. Here she comes.”

“Good thing. Since I'm useless and all.”

“Suck it, Pen,” he says quickly, because there's a girl in front of us now. A girl with wavy brown hair, shiny powder on her eyelids, and big hoop earrings. Her face is okay, I guess,
but everything about it says snob. She pulls up the sleeves of her striped sweater.

“Are you Chris?” she asks Colby.

“Maybe. What's your name?”

“Avery. My friends think you're this Chris guy from Castlehill Alternative.”

“Nope. My name's Colby.”

She shifts her weight to the other foot, like she's deciding whether to stay or go. “Cool.”

My burger and I make ourselves as small as we can.

“So, you go to Castlehill Alternative?” Colby asks, palming his chin. She shakes her head, so that means she goes to the public high school.

Castlehill Alternative is where the messed-up kids go. The ones who can't handle regular school. I could've ended up at Castlehill Alternative if things hadn't worked out when I met Colby years ago. Elementary school wasn't always that great for me and Tristan. I'd take off randomly from school a lot. The principal would call my parents, but it was always Johnny who found me. He'd take his beat-up white car—that's what he drove before he made enough money to get the truck—and drive around the neighborhood until he'd spot me on the sidewalk. I wasn't really going anywhere specific. Maybe I just figured Johnny would end up coming to get me.

It backfired big-time when Johnny got kicked out for almost a year. I should've known better and just taken whatever came at me.

Colby and this Avery girl exchange words over my head,
and I'm mostly listening to the sounds of my own chewing.

Colby says, “You smoke?”

She shakes her head.

“You wanna start?” He flashes her one of his grins and she smiles for the first time.

Man, why can't I be that smooth talking to a girl?

“Is your, um, friend coming?” the girl asks, right when I'm catching a piece of onion before it falls out of my mouth.

“Yeah,” Colby asks. “Pen's got nowhere else to go.”

I could just go home, but instead I'm doing what I usually do, and I follow.

COLBY'S THE ONLY ONE
smoking. We stand against the concrete wall, next to one of those cigarette-butt ashtrays that look like mailboxes. I sip the rest of my Coke, chewing on the end of the straw. That Avery girl left her friends behind; I'm third wheel now, which isn't unusual for me, except today it sucks. I kick an empty can of Sprite around until Colby flashes me a look that says he'll shove the can up my butt soon.

“You guys go to St. Peter's?” Avery asks, like she's only now realizing we both have gray uniform pants on.

“Yeah.” First word I've spoken since she appeared.

Colby checks his cell phone. I pull mine out, then Avery does the same—it's like a yawn.

“So, what kind of stuff do you guys do?” she asks.

I think of Blake and wonder about all the cool stuff girls could be into that they're not obvious about. “Gaming. Do you game?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. “My little brother does, I guess.”

“We're not losers about it,” Colby says, nudging me with his elbow. “Pen is, but I'm not.”

Yeah, that's why he goes nuts when I kick his butt at
Street Fighter
and tries to explain why it wasn't fair that I won, while he pops old-school
Double Dragon
in and challenges me to rematches until none of it is fun anymore.

“So you're, like, a girl?” Avery asks. “Like a gay girl?”

“Uh . . . ,” I say, staring back at her, pulling the straw in and out of my cup, making it squeak against the plastic lid. Colby takes a drag, and exhales the smoke in swirls.

“I just didn't want to assume,” Avery says, frowning.

“Assume I'm a girl? I am, so that's cool,” I say.

“Do your parents know?”

“That I'm a girl?”

Colby snorts a laugh.

“That you're gay,” Avery says.

“I don't really know. I guess it's obvious,” I say, but I don't think of myself as being gay, because that word sounds like it belongs to some guy.
Lesbian
makes me think of some forty-year-old woman. And
queer
feels like it can mean anything, but like—am I queer because I like girls, or because I look the way I do? Maybe I don't know enough words.

“You never told them?”

“No.”

“It's not really a big deal,” Colby says. “Kind of boring, actually.”

That's why I've had respect for Colby, because he's always acted like the way I look and who I'm into is just as interesting as it would be when it comes to anybody else—so basically not interesting at all.

She says, “Isn't it hard to be religious? Do you go to church?”

“Religious?” What does that even mean? She's making me picture people holding their hands up and praising the lord. My parents go to church on Sunday mornings, and there are rosaries draped over the Virgin Mary statue in the living room and the framed pictures of my dead grandparents—does that make
me
religious? I don't believe we came from Adam and Eve, and I don't believe in doing things just because an old book says so. “Nah, I'm not religious.”

“So how come you're at a Catholic school then? Don't they say anything about it?” she asks, like this is some kind of interview.

“I guess if I went around doing queer things in the hall, they probably would,” I say.

“For Pen to be able to do queer things in the hall, she'd first have to have some game,” Colby says, winking at me like it's a joke. My eyes get all narrow and I clench my teeth. This is what I get for bringing up Olivia earlier. He pats my shoulder. “Better watch out for Mrs. McCallion, though. Our principal is a Jesus-loving psycho.”

“So you're not like that guy on TV. The one who used to be a girl?” Avery asks.

Colby laughs. He's always more of a jerk when he's trying to
impress a girl, and I usually cut him some slack. Usually it's in one ear, out the other. Usually.

“I just wanted to know if you're a transgender guy. I was going to say that I'm cool with that,” she says.

Colby laughs some more. Avery's eyes dart between Colby and me.

“Relax, man,” he says to me. “I mean, you can't blame people for thinking you might be one of those. You've looked in the mirror, right?”

“Why do
people
care so much?” I ask. “Should I put a bow in my hair, you know, to clear things up?”

“I'm just saying, people are gonna ask questions. You can't blame people for wondering what the deal is.”

“I'm . . . going to go,” Avery says. “My friends—”

“No, wait,” Colby says.

“I have to go find my friends,” she says, pointing to the doors. Then she drifts away, fingers typing on her phone.

Colby shakes his head while he lights a new cigarette, then he turns to stare me down. “Dude, you better stop getting in my way. All of a sudden you're really screwing up my game.”

“I didn't do anything. I was just here—because you told me to come.”

“Yeah, that's my point. It used to be good when you were around, but now . . .” He shakes his head with this condescending fake look of disappointment. “First you mess things up with Blake. Now you tell this one that we're douches who play video games all the time, and it becomes all about your identity crisis. And Olivia—well, let's not even go there.”

I have nothing to say back to him. It's not the way he makes it sound, but it's not wrong either.

“Now I'm gonna go find that girl,” he says. “So I'll catch up with you later.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Later.”

“We good?”

“Yeah,” I say, my back to him, “we're good.”

When I'm on the bus, he texts me:
Old school Street Fighter on Thur?

I stare at the screen, then shrug.

Me:
ok

Him:
U b Ken. I'll b Ryu. I'll still kick yr ass.

Me:
yeah right—i'd kick yr butt even with Chun-Li

Him:
I'll take that bet. Winner buys pizza.

Me:
gonna snap yr head with Chun-Li's mega legs

Him:
Hey would u do Chun-Li?

Me:
if she wasn't a bitch

Him:
She would be. She thinks she's so big & bad cuz she does 8000 leg-presses a day.

Me:
how many can u do?

Him:
Like . . . 4, easy. :P

That makes me laugh out loud.

THURSDAY AFTER SCHOOL, JOHNNY AND I ARE
sitting on his couch watching a bad remake of some horror movie that was already shitty to begin with. Colby hasn't texted me about later, which is good because I don't feel like going anywhere today.

Johnny stirs next to me. He stares at the credits on the screen and wipes his face. After thirty seconds of being motionless, he jerks up and stretches. With a bandanna, I wonder if I'd look like a mini-Johnny.

“Can I ask you something?”

Johnny turns off the Xbox and Netflix disappears. “Sure. What's up?”

“Well, um . . . it'll sound weird.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Um . . . nah. Forget it.”

“All right, then.”

He wanders into the bathroom, just off the living room so I can see him standing in front of the mirror, checking his face out before putting on some deodorant. I stare for a while, feeling like an idiot.

“Okay, fine. So, do you, um, think that I'm trying to be a
guy?” I look up and meet his gaze.

“Are you
trying
to be a guy? Are you telling me you're my little brother now?” he asks.

“No.”

“Is Ma saying stuff to you?”

“No.”

“Is anything weird going on at school or something?” He says it all innocent, but he's watching my reaction.

“No. Nothing I can't handle.”

“Good. Because you know you just have to say the word and—”

“I know,” I say. “It's nothing like that. I just have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, like—why do you think people think that? That I'm trying to be a dude.”

He looks totally annoyed. “People are always thinking stuff about other people. Let 'em do their thing, and—you know—in one ear, out the other. If it gets to be more than you can ignore, then you tell me and we deal with it.”

“I don't get why it's such a big deal to people, the way I am. I know it's confusing or whatever, but—”

“You're just gonna act the way that comes natural, little sister. How many times do I gotta tell you to toughen up and stop listening to everybody else—especially Ma and all the people like her.”

I nod. When people keep acting like I'm the one who's wrong, it starts to feel like they're going to be right no matter how unfair it is.

“And I mean, you in a dress? That's what's scary.” He laughs. “Listen, man, have you seen me in a suit? Or those damn shiny shoes
Tio
Adão wears? Can you see me working at the factory with
Pai
? Marrying some lady so I can make babies? Come on. I let nobody else decide what kind of dude I am. You shouldn't either.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“But what?”

“The difference is that no one would look at you weird if you decided to do that stuff. Because you're allowed. You're supposed to.”

“My buddies would look at me weird.
I'd
feel like a douche, and that matters more, right?” He waits and I think. It's like it all knocks on the door of my mind but it doesn't actually go inside. “Look, just because people look at you funny, doesn't mean you have to change anything. Screw 'em. Even if it's your own mom giving you hell for it. You don't have to change. Unless you want to. You wanna wear a dress?”

“Hell no.”

“You want your ponytail back?”

“No.”

“You wanna give me my shirt back?”

I look down at the gray skater tee I'm wearing. “No way.”

“There you go. Leave it alone. Worry about you. Everyone else can worry about themselves,” he says. “But for real, man, you gotta stop stealing my stuff.”

“Can I borrow it?”

“I got a reputation. I can't be wearing the same stuff as my
sister, man. I just can't be doing that.”

“Because I'm a girl?”

“Because you're twelve.”

“I get it.” I roll off the couch and jog over to the stairs. “I guess I'll just keep the shirt then. Thanks!”

AFTER DINNER, STILL NO
text from Colby. I send him one as I leave the kitchen, then my phone crashes to the floor and the battery pops out of it.

“Shi—shoot . . . uh, balls!”

“What? Why you crazy?” my dad asks, coming up behind me, probably on his way to the living room recliner. “Balls, balls. You no say balls.”

“I'm not.”

He tells me to go be crazy up in my room, then he screws up his eyebrows. “You hair look stupid.”

“Thanks.”

“You wanna be a tall girl with this?” he says, running his hand over the top of the fauxhawk; then he flattens the whole thing down against my head. “You wanna be tall, you get big shoes.”

“I don't wanna be tall. I want cool hair.”

“Cool hair, cool hair,” he says with a smirk. “It's dirty hair.”

“That's gel.”

“Gel. You wash it. It's dirty.”

I pretend to fuss after it, fixing the spikes so they all point in the same direction—straight up. My dad rolls his eyes and
wanders into the living room. That's when I notice my mom watching from the kitchen.

“You come here,” she says.

“Why?”

“I make
massa
. I show you how.” All of a sudden, it's super important for me to learn how to bake sweet bread all by myself.

“But I'm going to Colby's soon.”

She tells me to do what I want before turning away.

UPSTAIRS, I SHAKE THE
crap out of my mouse to wake my computer up so I can get on my NES emulator. There's a Facebook message from Blake, just sitting there all fresh from four minutes ago.

Her message:
Hey Pen. :-)

Me:
hi, hey—i'm here—r u there?—sorry i missed yr message—hello?

And then I erase it all and start over, without the creeper factor:
hey—what's up?

One entire minute later, her:
What r u up to?

Me:
not much—u?

Her:
Same, actually.

Me:
cool

And then there's silence, and it's my fault because I answered with one word.

Her:
So . . . what if we were to hang out again?

I throw a fist pump in the air, then type:
well then i think fun would be had

Her:
i think so too

Me:
so . . . was that a hypothetical type of scenario?

I don't even know how I'm coming up with this stuff. I sound so much more chill than I feel right now.

Her:
I'm thinking it could be a real scenario.

Me:
real is good—so um . . . maybe i should run into u @ the Gamer Depot sometime?

Her:
I'm thinking we actually leave our houses & purposely meet somewhere to do the hanging out.

Me:
that sounds like an awesome plan—when

Her:
Tonight?

Me:
good idea—where

I have no idea where she lives. We figure out that we live on opposite sides of Castlehill and neither of us can walk an hour in the cold to meet halfway. The buses go every half hour, but we'd have to transfer at the Castlehill Transit Station. That'll take an hour and it's already seven. On a school night, too.

Her:
It's not looking good . . .

This is not going to go down this way. I can figure this out.

Me:
i have a brother—he drives

Her:
Feel like coming over then?

I close my eyes because I can't believe my amazing luck tonight. I'm going to Blake's. I'm going to her house, even if lightning strikes me or a bird craps on me. She invited me over.

I dial Johnny from my cell.

“What?” he says.

“I need a ride. I need a ride so bad. Please, please, please.”

He sighs into the phone. It shouldn't be too much of a hassle
because he does the outside work at the McKinley buildings, which is right by Blake's house; he knows exactly where to go. I rush around my room, swapping jeans, spraying cologne on both sides of my collar.

“I'll pay you!”

“You mean, I'll pay myself,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Fine. You got five minutes.”

“Three, man! That's all I need.”

I end my Facebook conversation with Blake, then sprint to the bathroom to put on a fresh layer of deodorant and brush the crap out of my teeth and my tongue. You never know. My hair's not too bad. I gel the stray pieces into place, then spray the whole thing so it won't ever move again.

I'm going to Blake's. I made it happen.