Hello Groin (32 page)

And then I wrote:

Hail, Unem-Snef, who comest forth from the execution chamber, I have crawled out of the grave.

Hail, Basti, who comest forth from Bast, I have broken out of my fear
.

Hail, Cam, who comest forth from the temple of decency, I have told the truth.

Hail, Dad, who comest forth from a great heart, I have let myself feel pleasure and love.

Hail, Keelie, who comest into the early morning bedchamber, I am seeking my own happiness.

Hail, Joc, who comest forth out of my heartbeat, I have lain with sweetness.

Hail, Dylan, who comest forth from my brain and my heart and my groin, I am letting my heart beat, I am living its heatbeat.

For a long moment I sat in the blurred circle of lamplight, reading and rereading what I’d written. Then I crawled into bed, loosened the string on my pajama bottoms and slid my hands between my legs.

“Hello, groin,” I said.

And I did whatever I wanted.

Chapter Twenty-five

It was one week later and Joc and I were sitting in the cafeteria, speed-reading through the last few chapters of
1984
for our after-lunch class. Not at the senior jock table and not at the official lesbians table—just one next to an exit where the social leftovers sat, the fringe of the fringes like Tracey Stillman, the Virgin King and those looking for an in-between place, somewhere to park your butt and get your bearings.

The news was out about Joc and I. To my surprise it hadn’t created a major buzz, more like a steady hum that followed us wherever we went. So far I’d gotten a lot of curious glances and several excessively dumb remarks, as in, “You’re going out with Joc Hersch, aren’t you? Well, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but what do dykes
do
when they’re...y’know? Like, what do you
do
?”

Like I said, really DUMB, but for the most part that was as bad as it got. The one exception had been yesterday, when Geoff Simone deliberately tripped me in the hall, muttered, “Fuckin’ dyke” and took off. For five seconds my mind went blank with shock, and then I was so absolutely raving furious that I almost levitated off my hands and knees and took off
after him. But I managed to get a grip. Geoff was, after all, the ultimate no-brainer bully. So I just ditched the whole thing, picked up my books and kept walking down the hall as if nothing had happened.

Five minutes later a girl came up to me and said, “That was cool, the way you handled that thing with Geoff. I’m not a dyke or anything, but I still thought it was cool.”

For the second time that day I almost levitated midair, this time in sheer disbelief. But then I thought,
Give her a break, Goofus. A month ago you were this dumb. Dumber, even
.

I mean, at least she was
attempting
contact with the dyke species. That gave her a definite leg up on the phone patrol, who were doing their level best to pretend that I didn’t exist—no eye contact, no messages taped to my locker, not even any damaging rumors. Unfortunately this lack of obvious malice on their part wasn’t due to their shock and sorrow at the realization that I’d officially dumped them. No, the credit for their semi-civilized behavior went to Ms. Harada. Two days ago, she had stunned the entire student body by coming onto the PA during morning announcements and announcing the cancellation of the rest of the season for the senior girls volleyball team.

“It has come to my attention,” she’d said briskly, “that a member of the team was recently harassed into quitting because other team members
thought
she was lesbian.” The PA had spit emphatic static on the word “thought,” and Ms. Harada had paused for emphasis. “After verifying with other team members that this harassment had, in fact, taken place,” she’d continued, “it became clear that although the entire team was aware this was going on, no one attempted to interfere or report the situation to me or any other appropriate authority. As a result, I have decided to cancel the rest of the season for the senior girls volleyball team. I hope this drastic action will clearly communicate
to the entire student body that Diefenbaker Collegiate has a
zero tolerance policy
for this kind of behavior.”

Since Ms. Harada’s announcement, the phone patrol had developed a distinctly hunched appearance, probably due to the disgusted glances they kept getting from everyone else. The senior jock table had also become noticeably subdued. And I have to admit that I was thoroughly enjoying it—this slam-dunk demotion of the former demi-gods to human status. So much so, that my mind was only half-focused on the fact that Joc and I were holding hands—
under
the table of course. No way was I ready for the radioactive stares that would zoom in on us if we linked pinkies in full view.

Beside me Joc was whistling softly, waiting for me to finish the page so she could turn it. Just as I reached the last paragraph, she sucked in her breath and said quietly, “Don’t look now, but Cam just walked in.”

Of course my eyes immediately shot up off the page, and I saw him walking slowly down the cafeteria’s central aisle, his gaze flicking between the senior jock table and me. Our eyes locked and I felt a warm heat rush my face. Since his driving session with Keelie a week and a half ago, we hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t phoned and though I’d said I would call him, I hadn’t had the guts. I also hadn’t had the guts to show up for my lunch-hour intra-murals games in case he was the assigned ref. So though he must have heard that Joc and I were going out, he hadn’t heard it from me, and I didn’t have a clue how he felt about it...I mean, how bad he was hurting.

Please please please
, I thought frantically.
Please, just please
. Glancing one last time in my direction, Cam came to a halt beside the senior jock table. With an eye-fluttering look, Rachel slid over to make room and he sat down beside her. The breath went out of me then, and I sat just staring at his back. I mean,
I’d been expecting something like this, I knew it was over, but it still felt as if someone had slammed me in the gut.

“The shit,” muttered Joc. “He could’ve at least come over and said hi.”

“Oh well,” I managed. “Dikker’s not talking to you either.”

As she opened her mouth to reply, a movement at the senior jock table caught my attention and I saw Cam get, once again, to his feet. Then, as I stared, my heart in a gigantic kick-ass thud, he came walking down the aisle and slid onto the bench across from me. A second later Len Schroeder sat down beside him.

“Hey,” said Cam, his eyes flicking across Joc’s open copy of
1984
. “What’re you reading—
The Joy of Sex
?”

Oh, how I wanted to dive across the table and hug him. Here he was, in the middle of the Dief cafeteria with literally hundreds of eyes glued to his back, doing his best to let me and everyone else know that as far as he was concerned, we were still friends. Decent, the guy was decent.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s the sequel. I already read the first book, remember?”

He nodded, his eyes still on the book’s cover, then said, “For that essay you were supposed to write on ancient architecture.”

“The one they read aloud in the staff room,” I agreed. Tentatively our eyes met, flicked away, touched again. A slow smile crept onto Cam’s mouth. Slowly I smiled back.

“What’s this?” demanded Len, leaning toward me. “You wrote an essay on sex for a Dief class?”

Glancing at him I saw his eyes flat on me, wide open and searching. Our gaze locked, and as we sat staring at each other, I was hit with how much I disliked him. Then my dislike faded and I was able to see the fear in him, and in behind the fear,
a kind of longing and curiosity. Then this also faded, and I realized that the guy was sitting directly across from Joc and I, mentally jerking off while he tried to imagine the two of us having sex.

Joc caught it too. Letting out a snort, she reached across the table and punched Len on the arm. “Too bad, bud,” she said. “We made some home movies, but we’re not showing them to you.”

Len’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Hey,” he said, pulling a deck of cards from his shirt pocket and arcing it hand to hand in a graceful shuffle. “Thought you two might be interested in a game of strip poker.” Then he bugged his eyes, made a big
O
with his mouth and said, “Oops, I forgot. We’re not your type anymore, are we?”

Instantly Cam stiffened, and I felt him shift into diplomatic gear as he tried to figure out how to protect me without pissing off Len. And Cam’s going stiff made me go stiff as I frantically tried to work out how to stop being a problem that he, once again, had to solve. But abruptly, in a glad rush I realized that I didn’t need to do that anymore, and neither did Cam. Leaning forward, I stuck a finger into the arc of cards still traveling between Len’s hands. Cards flew everywhere, landing on the table, the floor, between the pages of
1984
.

“You’ve got it,” I said to Len’s startled face. “I’m not your type and never was. But if
you
want to play strip poker with Cam,
we’ll
be happy to sit here and watch.”

For a moment Len just stared at me, a telltale flush creeping onto his face. “Yeah right,” he said finally. “Cam’s not my type, in case you haven’t noticed.” Without bothering to collect his cards, he got to his feet and stalked back to the safety, the
sameness
, of the senior jock table.

“Maybe,” I said softly, watching him go.

Cam shot me a questioning glance, then quirked an eyebrow.
I quirked one back, but left it at that. Whatever was going on inside Len, it was his secret and his fear. It was his right to hide it or talk about it whenever he was ready.

“Well,” said Cam, “I’ve got to get back to the gym. I just came in for a pop.” Placing both hands on the table, he started to stand, then sank back down. “I heard,” he said, his eyes dropping to the table, “you two are...together now.”

My heart started in pounding, major kick-ass, and I had to blink back a rush of tears. “Yeah,” I said hoarsely, “we are.”

A slight flush came and went on Cam’s face and his eyes reddened. “Well,” he said slowly, flicking me a glance, “that’s good, I guess. You’ve been friends for a long time, real friends.”

Again his eyes flicked across mine and I saw the pain in them, but more than that—a kind of giving. In the middle of how incredibly difficult this was for him, I could feel him sitting there and telling himself that he could do this—he could reach into the strength of this moment and give it to himself and to me.

Reaching out with my foot, I kicked him gently under the table. “Call me sometime,” I said. “I want to hear more about parallel universes.”

“Then you call me,” he said, standing up. “My cell ringer’s back on and you know the number.”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, “to your soul.”

A tiny crouching grin touched his mouth. “Yeah, Dyllie,” he said quietly. “You’ve got it all right—the number to my soul.”

Then he turned and walked down the aisle, and I sat watching him go.

“Sweet,” Joc whispered beside me. “That guy is sweet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Here I am, sitting between the two best loves in the world.”

I glanced over at the senior jock table then and just watched
them for a moment. And in that moment I saw that they were all like Len, afraid—of themselves, of each other, of their groins and the feelings they brought. When you’re afraid of something, it gets bigger than you. It gets twisted. It can take over your life. It can run you.

With a deep breath, I took Joc’s and my clasped hands from under the table and laid them on top of it for everyone to see.

Epilogue

The wind was coming at me in long cold sweeps, a gray wind that belonged to a Saturday in mid-November. It was the day after Keelie’s birthday, and in spite of the cold weather, she’d insisted on going out to fly the kite I’d given her. So after calling Joc and asking her to meet us at Dundurn Street Park, I’d tucked the kite under my arm and Keelie and I had set out. And that was where we were now—me on my knees behind Keelie, helping her hold onto the string while she watched the blue-and-white diamond float above us in the dull gray sky.

Keelie was singing. Head back, her eyes fixed on the kite, she was holding onto the string with both hands and letting notes drift from her mouth—nothing I recognized, just a beautiful sound in the air. And it wasn’t only her throat that was singing, it was her chest, arms, legs and groin, all of her vibrating in a body-wide peaceful happiness.

She was singing to her heart. Way up in the sky, Keelie’s heart was bucking and dancing and kicking while she stood far below, holding on tight and letting her whole body sing. And I could feel it in her then, how wide open she was to whatever was coming toward her in this life, how sure of her own happiness.

Yeah
, I thought.
This is the way I want to be. I want to be like my little sister Keelie when I grow up
.

In the distance I could see Joc, coming over the bridge. Raising a hand I waved, then again took hold of the string, nuzzled my face in closer to Keelie’s and listened to her sing.

About the Author

Long recognized as one of North America’s finest—and bravest—writers of teen fiction, Beth Goobie continues to explore the important and often contentious issues that face young people growing up. Goobie’s novels have received numerous awards and citations in Canada, the USA and Europe, and have been published in many foreign editions. The author lives in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Other books by Beth Goobie