Busted (20 page)

40

F
or better or worse, I don't feel self-conscious standing in front of my peers, warbling my way through a song that most of them have only ever heard their grandparents play. All that matters is that Abby has forgiven me, so I throw everything I've got into the performance.

The song ends and the audience erupts. I can see the DJ standing just offstage, waiting to take over, but the crowd screams for an encore. We run through the entire pop song set again, and this time I join in with each one.

A month ago I was afraid that people would think we were total losers for playing this stuff, but now I see that we're the nearest thing Brookbank has to a bona fide pop group; this must be the kind of high that keeps the Rolling Stones performing, even though they're almost two hundred years old.

In the middle of the gym, GRRLS is no longer a unified group—most of them have split and partnered with boys. To an outsider, our senior class would look like the most perfectly functional collection of eighteen-year-olds imaginable. The past has been forgotten—everyone prefers the look of the present.

We end the set with a reprise of “California Dreamin',” and this time I stand between Abby and Caitlin, leaning from side to side in time with them. It's not exactly original, and it's certainly not sexy, but it feels surprisingly cool.

And then Brandon and his cronies walk in.

We manage to keep going for almost the whole song, but they're wreaking havoc on some of the more skittish couples, pushing the boys aside and sliding in for an intimate grind with the poor unsuspecting girls. Eventually we look at one another and bring the music to a premature close.

Brandon looks up, surprised. “Don't stop for us,” he shouts. “Even crap music is better than no music.”

The DJ spies his opportunity and jumps in with a hip-hop cover of “Twist and Shout.” Brandon laughs triumphantly and returns his attention to separating the couples around him.

“Come on,” says Abby. “We're going down there.”

“Can't we just stay on the stage?” I ask hopefully.

“Don't be a wuss, Kev. If I wasn't going to let you ruin my senior prom, I'm sure as hell not going to let Brandon Trent do it.”

Caitlin and Nathan and I tag along behind Abby as she jumps off the stage and joins the throngs cavorting in mini-circles throughout the gym. Just ahead of us, Zach is making a beeline for Taylor, who has her arms wrapped around Spud's broad shoulders.

“Hey, Taylor,” Zach screams above the music. “What the hell are you doing?”

Taylor doesn't hesitate. “I'm dancing with my boyfriend.”

“You've got to be kidding me. Spud's a retard. Spud's a—”

With a lightning-fast thrust of his arm, Spud sends Zach sprawling across the floor. Zach stays down for a few seconds, then struggles to his feet. He clasps both hands tightly over his mouth, apparently unaware that his nose is bleeding quite impressively.

“My tooth,” he whimpers. “You chipped my tooth!” Blood from his nose runs over his fingers as he scampers away.

I turn to Taylor. “Looks to me like he might need one of your tampons.”

Taylor blushes. “Oh, you worked out what that was, huh?”

“My mom told me.”

Taylor and Abby laugh, and even though I should feel embarrassed, I somehow don't.

Morgan joins us and gives Abby a hug. “What's so
funny?”

Taylor laughs again. “Oh, Kevin was just saying that—”

“He likes the DJ,” Abby interrupts, trying to spare me further humiliation. I give her a kiss.

“Ready to go to third now, Morgan?” drawls Brandon, stumbling toward us and pushing Abby out of the way.

“As I recall, we never got past first, Brandon, and that's not about to change.” Morgan turns up her nose as if he smells; which, come to think of it, he does—the odor of cheap booze hangs about him whenever he opens his mouth. I guess he decided to try out his fake ID.

“You're really tight, but I guess all virgins are like that,” slurs Brandon, groping her butt.

Morgan pushes him away. “Get off me, you jerk.”

“I'll do whatever the hell I want,” he grunts, pulling her toward him and forcing his lips onto hers.

Morgan slaps at Brandon's face frantically, while Abby pummels him with an impressive barrage of right and left hooks, but nothing slows him down. After a couple seconds, he swats Abby away like she's nothing more than an irritating insect. As I see her look of outrage and glimpse Morgan's utter horror, something inside me snaps. I grab hold of Brandon's tuxedo jacket and pull him away, then hurl him across the floor with every ounce of strength I can muster. He's off-balance, drunk, and completely unable to regain his footing before he crashes headfirst into the model Eiffel tower, which collapses on top of him.

It feels as if everyone is waiting to exhale. I know that any second now Brandon will get up and beat the crap out of me; it seems likes the natural, inevitable conclusion to this episode of my life.

But instead, with typically impeccable timing, Jefferies approaches our group. He's incensed that the backdrop for the prom photos is lying in a heap in the middle of the floor. Ms. K appears too, and kneels down beside Brandon's prone figure.

“What just happened here?” Jefferies bellows.

I look around the group. Abby grasps my hand as Morgan blinks back tears and steps forward. I can tell she doesn't want to have to say out loud what just happened, but she won't allow me to take the fall, either.

She coughs. “Brandon was—”

“Drunk!” shrieks Ms. K. “Carl, just smell this boy's breath. He clearly passed out and fell into the tower.” She jams her hands onto her hips. “It seems that every year some students feel the need to flaunt the rules. Well, I trust you'll be dealing with him most harshly.”

“I-I certainly will,” Jefferies assures her.

Together they disentangle Brandon's body from the mess of papier-mâché girders. As they carry him out of the hall, I notice the rest of his posse stumbling uneasily toward the exits. Nobody tries to stop them.

Morgan coughs again. “Thank you, Kevin. That was very chivalrous of you.” She steps over and gives me a peck on the cheek.

“Hey,” says Abby, pretending to be annoyed. “You want to kiss my boyfriend, you need to ask me for permission.”

No one seems at all surprised to hear her call me her boyfriend, but I spin around and raise my eyebrows inquiringly.

“What?” She grins. “In the new spirit of sexual equality, I decided to take the initiative. Don't you want to be my boyfriend?”

“Actually, I'd like that very much.”

Abby leans in and kisses me, and straight away we're full-on. It feels amazing—the perfect distraction from my brush with death moments before—but I still have something to say, and I need to say it now.

“I'm so sorry, Abby. I'm sorry for everything I said and did, and for all the ways I hurt you and took you for granted. I don't deserve you.”

She half-smiles and nods approvingly. “Apology accepted. Now I think we should try to move on … Kissing would be a good start.” She leans forward expectantly.

Another kiss, more delicate this time. But something still doesn't feel right.

“I really mean it, Abby. I feel so guilty about everything.”

Abby sighs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I think it's time you looked on the funny side. Now that your obsession with breasts is behind you, you have to admit that it was all kind of weird.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“And you certainly learned a lesson.”

I can't help chuckling. “Yeah. I really got busted.”

“Bust-what? … Did you just say
bust?”

“No, no, no.” I take a deep breath. “I said busted.”

“Oh. You mean you screwed up.”

“Yeah. As your mom would say, I made a boo-boo.”

“A boob-what? … Did you just say
boob
?

“No!” I can feel my pulse quickening.

Abby narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Geez, Kev. I thought this was supposed to be an apology.”

“It is. It really is. I just … it's not coming out quite right, you know?”

“Well, I'm just glad you agree that you were kind of stupid.”

“Absolutely, yeah. I've been a twit.”

Her jaw drops open. “A tit? … Did you just say
tit
?”

Oh crap.

“God, no! I wouldn't say anything like that. I'm past all that stuff now. I'm … I'm … ”

“You're what?”

“I'm … ” I begin, but then I notice Abby's mouth twisting into a smile.

“Easily manipulated?” she suggests, biting her lower lip.

“What?”

“I'm just messing with you, Kev … But you
are
easily manipulated, you know.”

Oh my God, she was kidding. I can't believe this.

“I am not easily manipulated,” I say confidently, but Abby just laughs. “Not always … I mean, sometimes I—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she groans, and this time I'm happy to oblige—it seems safer than apologizing.

I hesitate just a moment, but then our mouths come together and we kiss.

Again.

And again.

I guess that being manipulated has its upside.

©2008 Audrey John

About the Author

Antony John was born in England and raised on a balanced diet of fish and chips, obscure British comedies, and ABBA's greatest hits. In a fit of teenage rebellion, he decided to pursue a career in classical music, culminating in a BA from Oxford University and a PhD from Duke University. Along the way, he worked as an ice cream seller on a freezing English beach, a tour guide in the Netherlands, a chauffeur in Switzerland, a barista in Seattle, and a university professor. Writing by night, he spends his days as a stay-at-home dad—the only job that allows him to wear his favorite pair of sweatpants all the time. He lives in St. Louis with his family.

Acknowledgments

A debut novel rarely sees the light of day without having a fairly hefty support team, and
Busted
is no exception. Kevin Mopsely and I owe an impossibly deep debt of gratitude to Ted Malawer, my indefatigable agent—scholar, champion, and all-around nice guy—for making it all possible, and Nadia Cornier, for sage advice at every step. To Andrew Karre, my nurturing and insightful editor, for coming up with all the best ideas in the novel and allowing me to pass them off as my own, and the A-Team at Flux: Gavin Duffy for the (literally) jaw-dropping cover; Sandy Sullivan for taking my mess of words and tying it up with a nice pink bow; Steffani Sawyer for the elegant interior design; and Brian Farrey for his stalwart mentorship through the promotional side of publication.

My heartfelt appreciation to Nick Green, Simon Hay, and Robyn Reed—my intrepid early readers—who took me to task on everything from mistimed humor to misunderstood feminist ideology (sometimes both at once); Carolyn Moores and Jonathan Prentice, for administering generous doses of unsolicited praise at just the right moments; Julie Pottinger and Megan Atwood, for professional guidance that kept the project moving in the right direction; and Charles and Sandy Odom—my parents-in-law—for putting the whole clan up and looking after us while the final draft of this book was being completed.

I would also like to extend my sincerest thanks to the Seattle Public Library, especially the Northeast branch, for procuring whatever I needed, whenever I needed it, and for not getting steamed up every time my son ruined their displays; the staff at the Coffee Crew and Tully's Five Corners, Seattle, for fine coffee, friendly banter, and rent-free comfy chairs; John Hubbard and Jim Graham-Brown—the kind of high school English teachers legends are made of—for having faith in my writing, and more importantly, faith in me; and Roy and Angela John—my parents—for making my childhood (even my teenage years!) perpetually joyful. The older I get, the more I realize what a feat that was, and what a tremendous goal for me as a parent. If I do it half as well as you guys, I'll consider myself a roaring success.

And Audrey—last on the list but first in all things—for impacting each and every page. We both know I couldn't have done it without you, and it means so much to have shared every moment of the writing, editing, and publication process with you, my greatest advocate. Here's to many more years of our crazy, breathtaking ride.