Busted (19 page)

38

I
guess you're going to say ‘I told you so,' huh?”

“Hardly seems necessary,” Abby replies matter-of-factly.

We're walking home together. It's a couple of miles, but it's a mild evening and I'm on a high.

“It's just that … he could be cool. And he made me feel like I wasn't a geek. He can be a nice guy, you know.”

Abby just shakes her head. “Your dad can be a nice guy, Kevin. Doesn't excuse what he's done.”

“I guess not.” I smile at her, but she's looking away. “Well, I'm glad everything's back to normal now.”

“You're kidding, right? You really think everything's back to normal?”

“Isn't it?”

“No, Kev,” she whispers, “it's not. What about the pop group?”

Oh yeah. I forgot about that.

“You left us and you never even had the guts to say so,” she continues. “You're the best performer this school has known and you turned your back on music. But even worse, you turned your back on me. You're my best friend and you treated me like crap.”

“I'm really sorry, Abby. At least I've apologized to everyone now—”

“But I'm not
everyone
.” She stops walking and stares at me like she's trying to explain a really easy math problem. “In case you've forgotten, I didn't hook up with you to inflate my measurements, or to get back at some other guy. I did it because I love you, and I thought you liked me too.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She looks hurt. “You're sorry that I love you?”

“No, I'm sorry for everything that's happened. You know, for the things I did.”

“The
things
you did?”

“Yeah. For all of it.”

“All of it?” She shakes her head, stares at the ground. “That's the best you can do?”

“What do you want me to say, Abby?”

“I want you to say you're sorry—not about
all of it
, but about
me
, and what you did to me. And I want you to say it like you mean it. And I want…”

I give her a few seconds, but she's silent and still. “What do you want?”

She peers up and sighs wearily. “Listen, Kev. I always dreamed high school would end with you walking next door to escort me to prom. I even thought it was a sure thing. But I waited and waited for you to ask me. And then, last week, I bought myself a ticket. Because whatever else you've done to me, I'm not going to let you spoil prom as well.”

I nod, but I'm not exactly sure what she wants me to say, so we walk the rest of the way in silence. When we reach her house, she heads up the front walk without saying good-bye.

“I'm sorry, Abby.” I say suddenly. “I'm really, really sorry. I mean it.”

She turns and smiles, but it's a distant smile. “Then prove it, Kevin. Show me you're still the same as ever, 'cause I'm done talking. Words are cheap, as they say.” She strides away and pulls her front door open roughly. She doesn't look back.

I wait a few seconds, then take a deep breath and trudge one door down. I'm barely indoors when I almost trip over Mom—she's on her knees tickling Matt the Mutt's belly.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hey,” I mumble.

And there the conversation ends, just as it has every day this week. I'm about to slide on by when I remember Abby's words: “But I'm not
everyone
.” Mom's still petting the dog, but her movements seem deliberate and tense, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. We're at a stalemate, and I know that since it's my fault we're in this situation, it's also my responsibility to make things better.

“Morgan says they all wish they hadn't asked you to leave,” I say, breaking the ice.

She doesn't look up, but I can see she's smiling. “That's all right. Tell her it's sweet of her to say so.”

More silence.

I take a deep breath. “Look, Mom, I'm sorry. I screwed up, I know I did … and I know I hurt you.” Mom nods but doesn't say anything. “And you were right, talking to Dad did help. Just maybe not the way you thought it would.”

“I suspect it helped
exactly
the way I thought it would. Don't forget, I know your father better than you do, Kevin.” Mom's crying now, but she's still smiling too, so I don't think she's angry or sad. “And although I couldn't bear to think of you following in his footsteps—not after everything that's happened—I had to give you the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … given his recent e-mails, I had a good idea what he'd say to you.” She puffs out her cheeks. “And either you'd like what you heard and stay with him, or you wouldn't. And then you came back.”

“But he wasn't always like this, right? This isn't who he really is.”

Mom wipes the tears away with the back of her hand and studies the floor. “Actually, honey, it is.”

“What?”

“His affair with Kimberly wasn't the first, and it probably won't be the last. I knew what he was like before we got married, but … oh, I flattered myself that he'd change for me. Like I was that special, you know?” She laughs ruefully, then shakes her head. “Well, I was wrong. Over time he got bored of me. I guess he wanted something else, something more … who really knows? Maybe being with Kimberly made him feel special somehow, but I doubt he loved her. I don't think he'll ever understand that when you find the right person, you don't need other people to reassure you that you're special. Because it's enough to hear it from the person who means it the most.”

Mom makes eye contact for the first time. I settle down on the floor beside her because I need to keep talking.

“I totally blew it with Abby. She was there for me all along, and I just—”

“You let her down, honey, but you didn't blow it.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it's not. I still love your father even though he doesn't love me. Despite everything he's done, I love him. And believe me, there are times I hate myself for it too. But you know what they say: even when the flames disappear, the embers keep burning.”

I think of the family portraits at the top of the stairs—how many days, months, years will pass before she can finally bring herself to take Dad's down? And how many days, months, years before Dad decides to put up a photo of any of us in his apartment? Mom can't let our family go; Dad won't acknowledge we ever existed. They're on opposite sides of an impossible divide. Surely that's not true of Abby and me?

“I don't know,” I say, thinking out loud. “Some of the things she said—”

“She's angry and hurt, and no wonder. So now you need to be patient. Give her time to realize you're still the same person she'd grown to love. It's the least you can do.” And Mom's right about that.

I lean over and stroke the dog gently, and for the first time in weeks he doesn't growl at me. In fact, he nuzzles my hand before falling asleep against my leg.

“It's nice to talk again,” I say.

“Yes, it is.”

Mom kisses my cheek like I'm five years old, which I take as a sign of forgiveness and as a cue to escape. I'm almost at the stairs when she coughs delicately, stopping me in my tracks.

“Kevin, honey, I hate to ask, but … there's one thing that still bothers me.”

I gulp. “Um, what is it?”

She bites a fingernail and narrows her eyes.

“Why are you wearing a tampon up your nose?”

39

I
figure that everyone except me will be fashionably late to prom, but when I arrive there's already a crowd waiting to get inside. Immediately in front of me, GRRLS forms a snaking line of slinky dresses—without a single tuxedo to spoil the effect. The few couples who somehow missed or ignored Brookbank's feminist revolution are so heavily outnumbered that they look embarrassed to be here. It must be the first major event in school history where the partnerless dorks feel cooler than the hip, beautiful couples. I appreciate this change—it benefits people like me.

The line is moving slowly and eventually stops altogether. I hear raised voices ahead of me, so I pull away to have a peek. Morgan and Taylor are standing side by side, holding their ground as Jefferies shakes his head, staring defiantly at a point slightly above their heads.

“But we did what you asked,” Morgan insists.

“You did no such thing. You were an embarrassment to the school and everything it stands for.”

“No, the baseball team is the embarrassment,” Taylor corrects him. “We were simply standing up for ourselves.”

“Turn around and go home, girls. And be grateful that your punishment ends here.”

“This is completely … ” begins Morgan, but then trails off.

Ms. Kowalski emerges from inside and sidles up to Jefferies, holding a finger to her lips. He spins around.

“Oh hello, Jane. I was just telling these girls that—”

“They should hurry up and come inside.” Ms. K smiles innocently. “I wondered what had been holding up the line.”

“B-But the game last night,” he stammers.

“Yes. They came, they dressed, they cheered.”

“But they cheered for the wrong team!”

“Well, you didn't tell them which team to cheer for, did you, Carl? And you're always telling me how important it is to be specific with one's instructions.”

Jefferies is livid, but Ms. K is already ushering GRRLS inside to avoid further incident. They trail along behind Morgan, their unofficial leader, all smirks and giggles. And suddenly I'm at the front of the line.

“Hold on, Mr. Mopsely,” sneers Jefferies. “What a coincidence to find you standing beside the cheerleaders again. Weren't you one of the participants in their Quad stunt?”

“Well, I wouldn't call myself a
participant
, exactly.”

“Then what would you call yourself?”

“Um … a bystander?”

“Oh really? Rumor has it you provided them with the Book of Busts. Is that true?”

Ms. K stops in her tracks and peers over her shoulder; I imagine that hearing Jefferies refer to the Book of Busts has not improved her mood. As our eyes meet I can tell that we're both considering the current status of our cold war, so I try to convey through telepathy that I'm sorry for everything I've done and would like to declare a truce. Somehow, Ms. K seems to understand.

“Carl, I'm sure you're about to congratulate Kevin on bringing an end to that galling tradition, but in the interest of time, how about we just let him in immediately, instead?”

“But Jane, I—”

“Carl,” sighs Ms. K, “let's just move things along here, okay? At the rate we're going, some of the students won't even make it to prom.”

It's about the most assertive thing I've ever heard her say, and Jefferies looks distinctly hot under the collar. With a flick of her head, Ms. Kowalski indicates that I should jog inside while he seems too distracted to stop me. No wonder she's my favorite teacher.

The school gym is decked out with streamers, balloons, and banners sporting French place names. A model Eiffel Tower that was a prop in the last school musical stands proudly in the middle of the floor. I sense a theme here, but I've always studiously avoided anyone associated with prom organization, so I can't say for sure whether it's deliberate.

At the front of the gym, on a flimsily constructed stage, a string trio massacres a Mozart Divertimento. It's an excruciating experience, and midway through their performance someone steps forward and asks them to wrap it up. As if aware of their own
ineptitude they don't even bother to finish the piece properly, so the music sort of fizzles out. In a pauper's grave somewhere in Vienna, Mozart is thanking them for stopping.

“Geez, that was seriously hideous,” says Kayla, shaking her head like she still can't understand why she was made to hear it.

“Yeah, it really was.”

Silence.

“Listen, Kayla, I just want to say I'm sorry I put you through … you know … that stu
ff. And the date.”

Kayla waves it off. “You've already apologized.”

“Yeah, but not to you personally. And Abby made me realize that I owe you a personal apology.”

“Yeah, you really screwed things up with her, huh? I mean, if I'd known she was into you I'd never have gone on that so-called date. I still find it pretty incredible that someone as cool as her is interested in you. No offense.”

“No offense taken,” I assure her. And I'm really not offended, because she's right—Abby is way cooler than me, and it's a miracle that she ever wanted to date me.

Right on cue, Abby, Nathan, and Caitlin take the stage, launching into one of our jazz arrangements. The sound is so much better than the string trio that everyone is immediately into the music, dancing or nodding their heads rhythmically, even though they'd never be caught dead listening to music like this outside of prom.

GRRLS leads the way, performing a raunchy, hip-grinding series of moves that has every guy staring with an open mouth. But Morgan and her sisters don't even seem to notic
e. It's like they've somehow moved beyond the need for boys completely, which would be depressing if they didn't look so utterly contented.

By the third song, a couple of dorky chess-playing seniors with acne summon the courage to approach Morgan and her friends and ask for a dance. It's the most improbable request in history, but GRRLS welcomes them into the throng, passing the boys along the line until they've danced with every girl. Straightaway, all the geeks, dorks, stoners, and losers gravitate into the GRRLS vortex and surrender themselves to the irresistible allure of Morgan and company.

The only geek who remains apart is me, because I'm busy focusing on the quartet. More accurately, I'm focusing on Abby, watching as her hair whips across the front of the double bass. She's dyed it so that thick red streaks punctuate her natural brunette, and her red satin dress matches the streaks. But more than anything I notice how completely unself-conscious she is as she lets herself go with the music. It makes her look amazingly confident and sexy. I get the feeling a few of the other guys are checking her out too.

Nathan strikes up the first of the classic pop songs, and again everyone gives in to the urge to dance. For a while I join them, but then I stop so I can listen to the music properly, enjoying the precision of the ensemble and the energy of the performance. How did I ever turn my back on this?

The song ends and I initiate the applause, striding to the edge of the stage and screaming my appreciation. And even though I wish I could be up there with them, right now I just want them to know how good they sound. Nathan and Caitlin laugh as they see me, jumping up and down and whooping until I'm red in the face. But Abby doesn't smile. She just stares me down until the applause dies out, by which time everyone is watching our interaction with morbid fascination.

I feel frozen to the spot as Abby gently lowers her double bass and approaches the front of the stage, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. When she's almost directly in front of me, she bends down and raises her right hand menacingly. I close my eyes and brace myself.

Suddenly I feel the palm of her hand on the back of my head, and her lips against mine. I open my eyes. We're kissing. We're really kissing. Behind me, everyone cheers.

“Welcome back, you dork,” Abby murmurs, her breath like a gentle summer breeze.

Straight away, Nathan launches into the opening bars of “California Dreamin'.” Abby is biting her lip and smiling, and I can't resist the urge to kiss her again. But then she pulls away and brings her other hand around so that I can see it.

Grasped between her fingers is my flute, already pieced together and ready to play.

For a couple of seconds I'm too stunned to react, but then I leap onto the stage and take the flute from her.

A moment later I begin singing and playing the arrangement she wrote for me from memory.