Hello Groin (12 page)

“Hello, Ms. Fowler,” I said. “Planning October’s display?”

“I’m afraid I’m rather behind schedule,” she replied, her eyes still fixed on last month’s display—a picture of a school entranceway that was being swarmed by a crowd of students. A banner over the doorway proclaimed: WALK INTO A GOOD BOOK. Definitely dullsville, something to fill up space. Grimacing slightly, Ms. Fowler glanced at her watch. “It’s already October third,” she sighed, “and I haven’t come up with an idea for this month. October’s only the second month of the year. I’ve got eight more to go.”

Leaving the check-out desk, I went over to stand beside her. “What about that globe in your office?” I asked. “You could
make a large planet Earth with different books for the countries. Or just do Canada, with a different book for each province and territory.”

A smile snuck into a corner of Ms. Fowler’s mouth. “That’s interesting,” she said quietly.

“Or...,” I said, then paused, my heart skipping slightly as I thought of Tracey Stillman and her book of poetry. “What about a girl and a guy,” I said, my words stumbling eagerly over each other, “and their bodies are made up of a bunch of books? The parts of their bodies could each have a different book title.”

Ms. Fowler blinked rapidly several times and her shoulders straightened. “Now that is really an excellent idea,” she said, still not looking at me. “Yes, I like that one very much.”

A brilliant cosmic kind of grin hit me, and I almost gave one of Keelie’s enthusiastic little skips. Already I could see Ms. Fowler perched on a stepladder in front of the display case, staple-gunning various book titles into the silhouettes of a girl and a guy. Over the next month, hundreds of students would read the titles in those silhouettes, and they would be looking at an idea that had come out of my head. Wonders never ceased. The next time I saw Tracey Stillman in the hall, I was going to have to tell her what she’d inspired. It would probably send her into another near-death experience, but what the hell.

Still grinning, I started back to the check-out desk, but was stopped by Ms. Fowler’s voice. “How would you like to do the display, Dylan?” she asked.

“Me?” I demanded. Stunned, I turned to look at her. “But I’m not an art student,” I stammered. “I’m not even good at English.”

“That’s not what Mr. Cronk tells me,” said Ms. Fowler, smiling slightly. “Besides, it is your idea. I’d like to see what you can do with it. How about it? Would you like to do the display?”

For a long moment I just stood there, gaping at the display case. Me, organize something that would be seen by every student and teacher in the school for an entire month? It was sure to be a flop, an utter failure. I mean, I was half-decent at kicking a ball around a soccer field, but artistic I was not.

On the other hand, what could be worse than what was up there now?

“Okay,” I stammered as book titles began swarming my mind.
Foxfire, In Cold Blood, The Small Words In My Body
. “Yeah okay, I’ll do it. Thanks.”

“Thank
you
,” said Ms. Fowler, turning toward her office with a look of relief. “You have no idea how much I hate doing display cases. Just let me know what supplies you’ll need, and I’ll get them from the Arts Room.”

Chapter Ten

Immediately I started scavenging everyone’s mind for their favorite book. From my afternoon classes, I got a long list that included
Beloved, The God of Small Things, Hate You, Confessions of a Remorseless Teenager
and
Hamlet
(I bumped into Dikker in the hall between classes). Then, after school I waylaid Cam and his buddies outside the guys locker room on their way into football practice, and got another barrage:
Superman, Batman, The Hardy Boys, The Cat in the Hat
and
Playboy
. Reading was obviously not these guys’ favorite activity.

“Hey, put me down for
War and Peace
,” added Len Schroeder, puffing out his chest and giving it a dramatic thump. “I read it for a book review I had to do in grade seven.”

Dubious groans erupted from the group.

“Yeah right,” said Gary Pankratz, punching his shoulder. “The
Coles Notes
version, maybe. That kind of stuff is for fags, anyway.” Dangling a wrist, he lisped, “
Ulysses
. That’s what I read before I go to sleep. A page a night for the past ten years.”

A guffaw rocked the group, and in spite of what had happened earlier that day with Diane and Geoff, I have to admit I laughed along with them. Not at the fag joke, but the idea of Gary Pankratz actually reading an entire page every night.

“What d’you want this for, Dyl?” asked Cam when the laughter had died down. As I explained about the library display, a broad grin took over Len’s face.

“Ditch
War and Peace
,” he said, “and change it to
Treasure Island
. And make sure you put it right across the guy’s dick in your display.”

Once again the group dissolved into laughter, taking me with them. These guys could occasionally be funny, even if they were illiterate. “Maybe I’ll use it for the girl,” I said, writing
Treasure Island
on my list.

“Uh-uh,” Len said quickly. “The girl’s would be
Sweet Valley High
.”

My mouth just dropped. I mean, I’d heard drug jokes about the series’ title, but never any sexual ones. “Okay,” I said, after everyone had calmed down. “What’s your favorite book, Cam?”

The other guys glanced at him, waiting for his reply, but Cam just stood there, staring at the floor.

“C’mon, Cam,” I said, elbowing him gently. “What’s the big secret?”

Reluctantly he glanced at me, his eyes kind of startled, almost frightened. For a second he reminded me of Tracey Stillman.

“I’ll think about it,” he said tersely, then turned to the group and said, “C’mon, we’ve got to get moving or Coach Gonie’ll be on our asses. See you later, Dyl.”

Then he was gone, the locker room door swinging shut behind him, while I stood staring at it. That hadn’t been like Cam. I’d never seen him freeze on an answer before—he was always ready with a quick reply. Something had to be bugging him. I’d get it out of him later on the phone.

Filing the incident at the back of my mind, I headed to the auditorium where I found Joc sprawled against the back wall
behind a crowd of Shakespeare groupies while Mr. Tyrrell gave some feedback to several actors standing on the stage. An expression of infinite boredom on her face, she was reading a copy of
Hamlet
.

Dropping down beside her, I said, “Hey, I’m taking a survey of everyone’s favorite book. Shall I write you down for
Hamlet
?”

“Uh-
uh
,” she said emphatically. “Diane du Bois said she liked it, so I decided to try reading it. But so far the story sucks. It’s about some loser who spends all his time wandering around telling everyone else off. His dad is the king, and Hamlet thinks he’s the greatest. But then his dad gets murdered and comes back as a ghost, and tells Hamlet to kill his murderer. What kind of dad tells his son to go kill someone? Hamlet’s so screwed up, he can’t even get it on with his girlfriend. No wonder he couldn’t decide whether to be or not to be. I don’t get what Dikker sees in this stuff.”

“Maybe he’s decided to improve his mind,” I said, sucking back a grin.

“Yeah, well I think it’s screwing up his mind,” Joc grumbled. “He’s even started quoting entire speeches from other characters. Why should I have to listen to gobbledygook that isn’t even from
his
character?”

I gave up and let loose with a big grin. “C’mon, it is a step up from
In Cold Blood
,” I said. “You’ve got to admit that.”

“At least then I could tell what he was talking about,” Joc snorted. She darted me a suspicious glance. “Do you like
Hamlet
?”

“I’m with you,” I assured her. “I think he needed a good kick in the butt.”

“A definite kick in the butt,” agreed Joc, tossing the book to the floor in disgust. “Y’know, Dikker hardly even wants to make out anymore. He just sits there reciting lines and making me read
along to make sure he’s got them right. He’s obsessed. I think he’s decided to memorize the entire play. This afternoon he told me he wants to become an actor.” She looked at me in horror. “He could be like this for the rest of his life.”

I tried very hard not to bust a gut laughing but was not what you would call successful. “You mean ten years from now I’m going to see him on TV doing used car commercials?” I wheezed.

“Oh, don’t,” moaned Joc. Collapsing against me, she buried her face in my shoulder. “Just don’t, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, feeling a flutter pass through my heart. A quiet thud-thud, thud-thud started up in my body—warm, soft and
everywhere
.

“Hey, Joc,” said a girl from the groupie crowd in front of us. “Dikker’s on.”

“Oh yeah,” Joc said disinterestedly, her face still buried in my shoulder.

Another girl turned around. “But it’s his big scene,” she said. “He doesn’t have a big scene,” Joc said glumly. “He comes on, farts, and goes off again.”

The groupies observed her in shock for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to the stage.

“Dikker’s going to hear about this,” I hissed at Joc. “The Shakespeare grapevine will be sure to get it to him.”

“I’ll tell him I have my period,” she mumbled.

“Hmmm,” I said, not wanting to get into
that
. “Hey, I’m still waiting for you to tell me your favorite book so I can add it to my list.”

“
People Magazine
,” Joc said dozily and yawned. I glanced down at her. Here my body was going thud-thud, thud-thud, and she was about to lose grasp on consciousness and slide into dreamland.

“Not a mag,” I said, “a book. Y’know, with lots of words and
no
pictures.”

“I don’t like those,” said Joc. “They remind me of
Hamlet
.”

“There are lots of books that aren’t
Hamlet
,” I said. “Pick one, any one.”

“
Gone With the Wind
,” Joc said finally. With a sigh, she snuggled deeper into my shoulder. “I liked that one. It had lots of words and no pictures, except on the cover.”

“The cover doesn’t count as a picture,” I said, writing it down. “And as far as I remember, Hamlet doesn’t show up in the plot anywhere.”

“Uh-uh,” said Joc. “Scarlet never even heard of him. He was just gone with the wind, and he should’ve stayed gone.” Pursing her lips, she puffed fiercely and said, “Go away, Hamlet. Go
away
.”

“He’s a goner,” I said, patting her head. “No sign of Hamlet anywhere. Except on that stage over there.”

“Keep him on that stage,” mumbled Joc, “and far away from me. If I have to listen to any more of that gobbledygook, I’m gonna barf, I swear.”

With that, she drifted off to sleep.

It was later that evening. Keelie had been put to bed, Danny was in his room playing video games and Mom and Dad were watching the late news. The house had settled into the quiet that comes with that time of day, all corner shadows and coffee-table lamp light, and I was where I usually was on a school night, doing you-know-what in my bed. As I got deeper into it, image after image started free-floating through my head—since I’d decided to let my mind go wherever it wanted, it definitely went there, straight to Joc, bringing sensations so vivid that I was left shuddery and gasping. But there’s no rest for the wicked. Just as
I was hit with the sweetest, most vivid lightning bolt of sensation yet, my bedroom phone started ringing. Groaning loudly, I lay for a moment, letting my breathing slow as I returned to solid reality: bed under my back, amber quilt over my knees, one very grotty hand and a goddamn phone. With another groan, I rolled over and reached for it. Whoever this was, it had better be worth it.

“Hello?” I grunted.

“Dyl?” asked a voice. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

It was Cam, his voice low and husky, so I knew he was probably lying in his bed and calling from his cell phone. What I would have given for one of those things, but Mom and Dad insisted on my having a regular phone—something about electromagnetic waves and brain tumors.

“No,” I said, taking a long slow breath. The images of Joc that had been invading my brain were fading now, almost gone. “How was practice?”

“The usual,” said Cam. “Grunt, slam, bash. It was great. What’d you do tonight? How’s Keelie?”

“Asleep, thank god,” I said. “She spent all evening zooming around the house on that broom. I swear she really thinks she can fly.”

Even on the phone, I could see the grin creeping across Cam’s face. “Maybe she can,” he said. “Maybe you just can’t see her doing it.”

Not sure what he meant, I said “Huh” and waited for him to explain.

“I’ve been reading about the wave particle theory for Physics,” Cam said hastily, as if embarrassed by the oddness of his statement. “Did you know that particles are also waves, and they only take particle form when you look at them? That means everything you see as solid is actually only solid when you’re looking at it. The rest of the time it’s in waves.” He paused, his voice wobbly
with excitement. “And here’s the really weird thing—a particle doesn’t just exist in
our
universe, it slips back and forth between parallel universes.”

“Huh,” I said again, trying to keep up with what he was saying.

“So you see,” continued Cam, “it’s just possible that Keelie’s particles actually are flying when you’re not looking at her. She could be slipping into another universe where she really is playing Quidditch on a magic broom with good ol’ Harry.”

As Cam said this, I was hit full force with the memory of what I’d been doing before he called. What if...what if the particles in my body had been switching into waves and slipping into another universe where I actually was making it with Joc? Was that why it had felt so real? I mean, was it
possible
?

“Huh,” I said again, and Cam laughed low in his throat.