Busted (7 page)

12

P
aige is talking. A lot. And most of what spills out of her mouth is too inane for me to remember even a moment later. But I don't care, because Paige is so hot she could recite the alphabet incorrectly and I'd still gaze at her like she'd won me over with a heartfelt Shakespearean sonnet.

She's wearing a white halter top, and her blond hair is down so that it cascades over her shoulders in loving waves. I want to touch her hair so badly. I also want to touch her tummy, and her face, and pretty much every other part of her. But I don't tell her this because I don't want her to run away.

“So anyway,” Paige grinds on, “I told Caitlin to get a life. And I said that while she was at it she ought to realize that Goths wear black. I mean, what a to
tal loser.”

“She's allergic to black clothes dye,” I explain, then remember that I'm in a p
urely observational role here.

“Oh. How'd you know that?”

“I play in a quartet with her.”

Paige nods deeply. “Okay, that's worth knowing. So you're, like, friends with her?”

The question seems loaded, so I hesitate. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Paige nods again. “Right. That's worth knowing too.”

She's clearly eager to order some food, but it's almost impossible to signal to a waiter since we're stuck at the very back of the restaurant, in a secluded booth miles from the nearest diners. I was really bummed when Paige asked for this booth specifically, as it meant no one would see me with her, and part of the pleasure of having a date with someone as hot as Paige is being seen with her in public.

“God, are we ever going to get served?” she moans. “Seriously, do you find the service in Mexican restaurants always sucks?”

“No, I don't,” I admit, chomping down on a tortilla chip loaded with salsa.

She flinches as I eat, and it occurs to me that she hasn't had any yet.

“So Mexicans don't bother you?” she asks, composing herself.

“No, of course not.”

“What about Asians?”

“No.”

“Okay, that's useful to know.”

A waiter appears before I have a chance to ask her how on earth that's a useful piece of information. Paige orders a taco salad, and I get chicken in a mole sauce. As soon as the waiter leaves, I have visions of brownish gunk smeared all over my shirt and pants and wish I'd had the sense to order something more manageable.

Paige shuffles in her seat across from me. “So, do you find it cute when girls act all shy and reserved, or do you prefer it when they just come on strong?”

Hmmm, tricky one. With a prior sample size of zero, it's hard for me to say. Except that I'm a guy, so it's actually quite easy.

“S-Strong. Definitely strong.”

Paige narrows her eyes. “Good. Good to know. And do you prefer to start off with kissing, or … ” She trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Um … kissing's good.”

She nods and brushes her hand across her bare tummy. “That's good to know.”

Again I'm intrigued by the number of things I say that are good to know. But I don't spend much time contemplating the matter, since Paige stands up and comes over to my side of the booth.

“So, do you like it when girls just take the initiative and … you know?”

I'm about to die, but it'll be a fantastic way to go.

“Yeah … I like that.”

Paige smiles. She leans in toward me and plants her lips gently on my cheek, then my other cheek, then the area just beside my mouth, and then …

My lips. I'm not sure if she actually wants me to kiss her back, and when I do absolutely nothing for several seconds she stops and looks
concerned.

“Is it okay?”

“Oh God, yes.”

“Good to know.”

She leans in again, and this time starts straight in on the lips. As she pushes gently against me I let my mouth open and my tongue—

“Fuck!” she says, pulling back suddenly.

“What?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. It's just … you need to go gently, you know? Let the kissing be all close-mouthed for a while, then move on. Got it?”

I nod. Paige takes a deep breath, readies herself, then leans in again. This time we hang around the general vicinity of each other's lips for a good long time, and I don't open my mouth until she opens hers, and I don't pop my tongue inside until her tongue gently finds mine, at which point I don't hold anything back—

“Shit!” exclaims Paige, then collects herself. “Kevin, listen … you have to be gentle with tongues. This isn't about staking a claim to my mouth, it's about slowly exploring the tip of my tongue. If that's good, move on to another part of the tongue, but never use your own like a fucking Mack truck.”

Maybe it's not such a bad thing that our booth is separated from the rest of the diners.

Paige takes another deep breath and leans forward again. We resume kissing from where we left off, and I do what she says and it's actually really good, even though her mouth tastes like an ashtray. It's almost like she's done this a lot, because she certainly knows what she's talking about. After a while we part naturally, and Paige is smiling.

“Not bad, Kevin. You should definitely avoid the salsa in the future, but other than that there's hope for you.”

It's kind of a backhanded compliment, but I don't really care because I just French-kissed Paige Tramell, and this is definitely better than any fantasy I've ever had.

Paige leans back against the booth cushions and runs her fingers all the way through her hair. When she reaches the tips she moves her hands to her breasts, then realizes what she's done and looks embarrassed.

“Oops. I just touched myself,” she giggles. “Hey, you'll never believe what happened to me today.”

“What?” I hope it has something to do with her touching her breasts.

“I found out I have the same physical measurements as Jessica Alba. Isn't that an amazing coincidence? Someone said they'd found out her measurements from some movie Web site, and when I went and looked, they were exactly the same.”

“That's cool,” I mumble, but all I can think about is how I've just managed to get Paige's entry for the Book of Busts on our first date. And she doesn't even realize what she's told me.

“Yeah, funny,” Paige says. She moves back to her side of the booth as the food arrives.

The waiter has barely finished arranging the plates neatly before us when Paige asks to have hers boxed since she has cheerleading practice in half an hour.

“You
what
?”

“I have cheerleading practice. I told you.” She pauses. “Didn't I tell you?” She looks genuinely horrified at having omitted this rather crucial detail. “I'm so sorry, Kevin. Now you must feel like this date has been the biggest waste of your time.”

“But … you've still got a few minutes, haven't you? I mean, if you don't need to be there for half an hour.”

“No, I really gotta go. I need to smoke three cigarettes before practice. I read that most supermodels smoke a pack a day to keep their weight down, so I'm trying to catch up.”

“But you do cheerleading. Doesn't that keep your weight down?”

“Screw cheerleading. I'm only in it 'cause the baseball final will be televised, and that's when I'll be spotted by a talent agency.”

Huh. Vacuous
and
conniving. Cool.

“So what's with the patch?” I ask, pointing to the square on her arm.

Paige glances at it. “Oh, my dad got upset when he found out I smoke. I wear this so he
knows I'm really trying to quit.” She doesn't seem terribly bothered by the duplicity.

The waiter reappears with Paige's box. She conjures a sad face for me, bites her lip remorsefully, then leans over and plants another moist kiss on my lips. By the time she leaves, I almost don't mind her going. I've got just about everything I could ever have hoped for from a first date.

Even the check seems like a small price to pay for such wild success.

13

L
u
ckily Mom stays late at work, so I don't have to explain why I'm home so soon. Her absence also gives me a chance to use the computer to conduct some quick Web research.

Measurements Jessica Alba
.

Google announces a number of useful hits, and moments later I'm jotting down incredibly private information about Jessica Alba. I don't exactly know how the site got hold of the figures—I can't imagine Jessica Alba volunteered them—but there they are, big and bold: 34B-24-34.

Mom's always telling me what a wonderful educational resource the Internet is, but until now I can't say I believed her. I scan the list of other famous actresses whose figures are listed; there are even revealing photographs of some of them conveniently located just a click away.

I click.

This may be the most momentous evening of my life. I'm already imagining the next Rituals meeting, contemplating how I'll present my findings to the guys. I even start to wonder if they'll kneel down before me, which is probably why I don't hear the door opening—

“Hi, honey. How'd it go tonight?”

I try to close the photograph as soon as it begins to emerge, but a little disk is floating around telling me the computer is occupied.

“Honey?”

“It w-was fine,” I say, or attempt to say; it comes out garbled on account of the fact that a naked woman is gradually being revealed on the computer screen.

“So what exactly
were
you doing tonight?” asks—

“Abby!” I gasp, spinning around. “What are you doing here?”

Abby points at the monitor. “What's that?”

I look back at the screen, but thankfully the computer has decided it actually has time to close the window after all. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead.

Abby shrugs. “So you were going to tell me what you were doing tonight.”

I look at Mom. “I, er, had a meeting.”

Mom raises her eyebrows but leaves without contradicting me. Abby watches her go, then closes the door softly.

“So listen, I just wanted to come around to ask, well, you know … how it went.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. I know who you met with today.”

I swallow hard. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do … Don't act so surprised. It's not exactly a secret.”

“It isn't?”

“No, you twit, it isn't. So, go on, did you do it?”

“Did I
wha
t
!?
” I can feel myself go bright red, and suddenly I really don't want to be here having this conversation with Abby.

“Did you, you know … do it?” repeats Abby without a hint of embarrassment.

“Um, I … well, I really don't see how it's any of your business.”

Abby looks flabbergasted, like I've just landed a sucker punch in her gut.

“Okay, okay. No, I didn't
do
it,” I assure her.

“What?” Now she looks even more horrified, which is really freaky. “Why not? Weren't you up to it? Or, I know,” she adds testily, “maybe you just don't have the balls for it.”

That's the last straw. “If you must know, yes, I do have the balls for it, but it's up to me whether or not I decide to do it, and it's certainly got nothing to do with you.”

A
bby cocks her head, stares at me with narrowed eyes. “Okay, I get it,” she says softly, her head nodding imperceptibly. “I guess I'll go now.” She turns to leave, then pauses before the door. “Although, I want you to know that I only came here because I care about you. And don't think I don't know how difficult it must be to stand up to Brandon and his pathetic troop of losers, but I really thought you'd do it. After what I told you last night, I just figured … ” She shakes her head. “But you didn't do it … I'm sorry if I made you feel bad.”

Oh crap. As she hurries away, my instinct is to chase after her and tell her I'm sorry and it was all a misunderstanding. But I can't. Because although I am sorry, I'm also giddy with relief that she was talking about my meeting with Brandon instead of my date with Paige.

And then it occurs to me that even if I had realized she was talking about Brandon, my answers would probably have been the same—because I was too cowardly to leave the group, and I'm still too ashamed to admit it to Abby.

And that doesn't feel so cool.

14

A
cell phone goes off at the beginning of lunch break and performs several rounds of the can-can before I realize it's
my
phone. I pull it out, flip open the screen, and check the message: QUAD NOW. BT.

Ordinarily I'd wonder how Brandon got my cell number, or why we'd need another meeting already, but right now I'm far more preoccupied with the prospect of venturing onto the Quad—the centerpiece of Brookbank High. Brandon knows perfectly well that the pristine grassy square is way too important to be sullied by mere students, even though we can view it enviously from most of the corridors. When we arrived at Brookbank we were told that setting foot on the Quad would result in detention, suspension, or whatever punishment Principal Jefferies saw fit to impose. As a result, it has achieved almost mythical status, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or the grassy knoll. Everyone wants to touch the Quad.

Everyone, that is, except me.

I trudge down the main staircase and peer through the double doors that lead to the Quad. It's already filling up with the imposing physiques of the Ritualites. I swallow hard, push open the door, and shuffle through.

“Mopsely!” yells Brandon, who clearly hasn't picked up on the subtleties of my covert entry. He punches my arm, making perfect contact with the bruise he left there last time.

“Brandon, the, um, Quad. You know, it's—”

“It's fine,” says Brandon. “Trust me, everything's cool.”

He points to an upper floor window where a group of freshmen boys angles for his attention. I wave at them, and they wave back li
ke they recognize me, or even better, like they think I'm
someone
. Oddly enough it doesn't even surprise me that much anymore.

Truth is, ever since my induction into Brandon's posse I feel like I've been given an unlimited-popularity pass. For years I lived below the poverty line of coolness, in the underworld of geeks and losers. I was tolerated by my fellow dorky cohabitants, but totally dissed by the trendy, beautiful people, who treated me like the excrement sticking to the soles of their personalized designer sneakers. But now the school's royalty pay homage with a discreet nod or grunt, and I can feel my stock rising. The geeks still high-five me because they haven't realized I'm no longer one of them, but that's okay—I'm generous enough to find room for them too.

“Nice to have budding disciples, isn't it?” says Brandon, pumping his fist in the direction of the freshmen, who seem to have nothing better to do than watch us.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It really is.”

The friendly chatter around us quiets momentarily, and I turn to see Jefferies standing before us. I duck behind Brandon.

“Gentlemen, I think you know the rules,” says Jefferies gruffly.

Brandon steps forward and shakes Jefferies' hand confidently. “Of course, Principal Jefferies. It's just that I felt a meeting to discuss the importance of school pride and history really ought to be conducted in the Quad.”

“School pride?”

“Absolutely,” says Brandon. “And let's be honest, who epitomizes the Brookbank spirit better than the baseball team, whose successes cast such a positive glow on our beautiful school.”

Jefferies nods approvingly. “No one can disagree with that … Well, now, you just keep your meeting orderly and
short
, okay?”

“You have my word,” Brandon promises the fast-disappearing Jefferies.

Then Brandon spins around and stares at us, his easygoing demeanor replaced by something rather more disgruntled.

“So you're probably all wondering why I told you to meet here today. Well, it's like I told Jefferies: you need a lesson in school spirit.”

He paces back and forth making eye contact with every guy; he'll make a great coach one day.

“To be blunt, Zach says the Strategic Graffiti Campaign isn't going well. Now, I know you're all busy, and I'm willing to cut you some slack for that, but we're a team and we need to work together. I'd like to remind you that when we meet, we're only a small part of something much greater than ourselves. We're continuing traditions that link us to more than four decades of Brookbank seniors. And included in those classes were future politicians, lawyers, and stockbrokers—esteemed men who understood the value of teamwork.”

Brandon stops moving and nods paternally at Zach.

“Yeah,” grunts Zach, fidgeting like he's afraid of forgetting what he's supposed to say. “So, only a few of the girls' bathroom stalls have been graffitied, and most of it's kind of lame.” He looks genuinely disappointed. “I mean, this is pretty simple shit, guys. You check that the restrooms aren't in use, then walk in, pick a stall, and write something crappy about some chick who had it coming. Like, am I the only one here who remembers that time freshman year when Sarah Howard got her first period during Physics and totally freaked out? That's the kind of stuff we've got to come up with. And if you haven't got the balls to write in permanent marker—yeah, I'm talking to you, Caleb—then don't bother doing it at all. It's not funny if they can erase it right away. Got it?”

Everyone nods but the Quad remains silent. I can't tell whether it's because the guys feel chastened or because they're utterly appalled by what they've just heard.

“Um, Zach,” I mumble. “Isn't that kind of mean?”

Everyone laughs derisively, but Brandon quiets them with a raised hand.

“No, no. It's a fair question. Look,” he says, giving me his undivided attention, “it'd be mean if the girls weren't in on the joke, but they like it too. Seriously, just ask Paige or Morgan or Taylor … any of the hot girls. They think the Rituals are kind of funny.”

“Um, okay.”

“Good, I'm glad we cleared that up. Now onto the Book of Busts. What's new?”

My hands are trembling as I pull out the book and point to Paige Tramell's senior portrait. Everyone leans forward, squinting to read the numbers.

There's a deathly silence. No one moves. All eyes are trained on the book, and the set of figures beneath the photo.

“Mopsely, you are … THE MAN,” yells Brandon, high-fiving me. Actually it's not quite a high-five—more like a creepy Masonic handshake—but I can tell it's a sign of respect.

Just as I feel myself swept along in the excitement, Zach snorts loudly.

“You're kidding, right? 34B? In her dreams, maybe. Paige wouldn't even scrape a 32A without some serious padding.” Zach looks up as Brandon shoots him a disapproving stare. “Come on, Brandon. These numbers might work for someone who actually
has
tits, but they sure don't work for Paige.”

Brandon scratches his chin thoughtfully. “How did you get these numbers, Kev?”

I close the book and place it gently back in my bag. “Well, at the date yesterday I did a little behind-the-scenes research.”

Zach snorts. “Your research sucks, you loser.”

I can feel myself shrinking back against the wall. I'm afraid that Zach is going to ask me to describe my research, and I'm not sure my answer will impress anyone. But then, to my surprise, Brandon intervenes:

“Hey, Zach, at least he's out there doing something, taking one for the team. I don't see you doing much.”

Zach looks mortified. “Come on, Brandon. How can you let him compile the book when he thinks Paige scores a 34B? With the right surgery she might make it, but for now her tits are smaller than your pecs.”

Brandon clearly appreciates the comparison.

“Then let's edit the numbers,” I say, hurriedly redirecting the conversation. “There's no reason why other people can't have input. I say 34B, Zach says 32A, so let's settle on 32B, okay?”

I don't suppose for a moment that it'll fly, but then Brandon slaps me on the back and says yeah, and just like that the matter is settled.

“You're kidding,” Zach fumes, his jaw muscles flexing. “This is a joke, Brandon. He's screwing up the book—”

“Lighten up, Zach.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “God, you're getting to be a real bore. I guess Taylor's holding out on you these days, huh?”

Zach is about to say something when Brandon flips him the bird. And just like that the discussion is over.

“All right, guys, that'll do it for now,” says Brandon. “But before you go, make sure you see Ryan. He's got your fake IDs.”

A cheer fills the Quad. Everyone pumps fists and bumps chests even more than usual. I keep a safe distance.

“Why do we need fake IDs?” I ask.

The cheering ceases. Fists stop mid-pump.

“He's got to go, Brandon,” Zach says through clenched teeth. “The guy's a total dork.”

“He's just kidding, Zach.” Brandon looks at me, adding expectantly, “Unless he has another way to get hold of booze for prom.”

“Um, not exactly.” I swallow hard. “But what if we get caught?”

“See what I mean?” groans Zach. “He's got no clue.”

Brandon just laughs. “Don't be stupid, Zach. He's kidding again. Aren't you, Kevin?”

I sense this is a rhetorical question. “Um, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Everyone else laughs too, and Brandon rewards me by ruffling my hair.

“God, Kev, you're so funny. Everyone always fixated on your dorkiness, but no one ever mentioned how witty you are. It's good to have you on board.”

I summon an aw-shucks grin for Brandon, then struggle to hide my amazement as Ryan hands me a fake photo ID. It's more realistic than any of my actual IDs, even though I'm apparently twenty-three years old.

“Do you really think anyone's going to fall for this?” I say, but when I look up, Brandon and Ryan have already taken off.

Suddenly a hand clamps onto my shoulder, rooting me to the spot.

“Almost certainly not,” sneers Zach, clearly delighted at this opportunity to inflict discomfort.

I study his face, which isn't difficult as it's only about four inches from mine. He's smiling broadly, but he couldn't appear any more menacing if he pulled a knife.

“Um, hello, Zach.”

“The book is a great responsibility, Mopsely.”

“Okay.”

“And it was supposed to be
my
responsibility.”

“Um … okay.”

“I just want you to know I'm onto you, got it? You may be Brandon's best buddy right now, but you're still just a charity case.”

“Ok—” I replay that last sentence. “Wait. Did you just say I'm Brandon's best buddy?”

“I wouldn't get too excited,” he snarls. “What Brandon gives, Brandon can take away.”

Zach administers an unfriendly right jab to my chest and lumbers off with the grace of a heavyweight boxer, but I barely notice. As long as I'm Brandon's best friend, I'm untouchable.