Be More Chill (15 page)

N
OW
, J
EREMY
! N
OW
! N
OW
!

My hand moves up Brooke’s leg to her chest.

F
EEL THROUGH THE FABRIC OF HER SHIRT
. S
EE IF YOU CAN FIND A NIPPLE
. I
F YOU
’
RE DOING YOUR
JOB
,
IT SHOULD BE HARD
. I
T
’
S ABOUT THE SIZE OF A PENCIL ERASER
. Y
OU KNOW HOW YOU CHEW PENCIL
ERASERS IN CLASS
? L
OOK FOR SOMETHING THAT SIZE
.

Assuming that you’re going by, uh “stage right,” I’m feeling Brooke’s right breast. “Oh…” she says very quietly, disconnecting herself from my
lips. “Oh…” It sounds like a bad
oh
, but she’s not offering any resistance so I keep palming until a small nub—just like a pencil eraser; good job,
squip!—makes itself known by sliding across my hand.

N
OW HERE
’
S THE TRICK
. N
EVER RUB THE NIPPLES UP AND DOWN
. A
LWAYS BACK AND FORTH
.
A
ND STOP KISSING HER MOUTH
. K
ISS HER NECK
.

I comply and Brooke leans back and makes little breathing noises that sound like baby horses with allergies. I use my index finger to rub the unseen but compelling nub back and forth, slowly at
first, then really really fast, then kind of fast, then slow and hard, then really really fast again. It’s fun.

T
IME FOR THE SHIRT TO COME OFF
. T
HEN YOU CAN KISS THE NIPPLES
;
THAT
’
S HIGHLY EFFECTIVE
.
U
SE YOUR OTHER HAND
.

I look back—Rich is lounging on the ground and Abby is licking his belly button, just like Samartha was doing at the dance. That must be his thing. I make some slick squipped eye contact;
he understands, leading Abby out of the dank and creepy spot so Brooke and I are alone. I bet he has a backup spot.

G
REAT JOB
. N
OW BOTH HANDS FOR THE SHIRT
.

My other hand was in the dirt—pretty useless, huh? I pick it up and pull the lower lip of Brooke’s shirt over her navel (with a ring, whoop-de-doo) and then her solar plexus.
Finally, in one of those epic moments that I thought only happened on your deathbed, her shirt is up by her neck and her breasts are
splayed out
! Damn! Although they’re not really
“splayed out,” they’re more like “laid out,” like two little hotcakes from McDonald’s with cookies-and-cream nuggets on the top of each one. They are much
smaller in person than they were under the shirt; they look like they belong to a ten-year-old. Boy.

“One of your nipples is pierced,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” Brooke smiles. “Just got it done.”

G
O
! G
O
!

I bury my face on Brooke’s breast, “stage left” this time, aiming for the ring. I want to stick my tongue through it, this crazy metal sexy thing—

“Aaaaa! Jeremy! Ow! Stop!”

U
H
-
OH
.

I look up. “What?”

“It’s infected! You can’t lick it.”

“It’s infected?” I squint at the nipple placed at the end of my nose. Jesus, it’s all purple and yellow around the part where the hoop goes through the skin! And
green
! “Oh man, I’m sorry, what did I do?”

R
ETREAT
! R
ETREAT
! D
ISEASE
! R
ETREAT
!

I pull my head back; Brooke grabs her shirt in a fist and swishes it over her breasts. “I wasn’t sure if—”

Y
OU COULD HAVE
TOLD
US
.

“You could have
told
us—I mean, me—I mean, wait.” I stand up, brush myself off and then kneel down next to her. “I wouldn’t have…uh, does it
hurt?”

“Of course it hurts, and I just got it; I don’t want it to close up.…”

U
H
-
OH
. B
AD SITUATION HERE
, J
EREMY
.

“I’m
sorry
, okay?” Brooke says.

T
ALK TO HER A LITTLE BIT
. B
E KIND
—

“Brooke, no,
I’m
sorry.…” I put my bony arm around her and lie down, pull her with me so she’s resting on my stomach and I’m resting on the ground
with the pot ash and Starburst wrappers.

G
OOD MOVE
.

“Maybe, you know, it was a bad idea or whatever.…”

“Okay,” she says, holding my leg. “It’ll be healed soon. You could kiss it later, in, like, two weeks.…” She keeps her face on my stomach. After we lie like
that for five minutes, I excuse myself and go to class.

G
OOD JOB
. T
HAT
’
S THE WAY TO DO IT
. N
EVER EVER BE MEAN TO GIRLS
,
UNLESS
THEY
’
RE UGLY
. E
VERYTHING YOU DO WILL COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU
. S
HE
’
LL TELL HER FRIENDS HOW
GOOD YOU WERE AND WE CAN BUILD FROM THERE
. T
HAT NIPPLE REALLY WAS A KICKER
; I
DIDN
’
T SEE IT COMING
.

Well, I keep seeing the nipple—puffy and rainbowed and skewered, a really sad specimen, worse than anything I’ve seen on the Internet—in front of my face as I go to class. I
turn the squip off in school so I can think about the stuff I used to think about.

Silence in my head doesn’t last long. The squip is back on and very much necessary as I stumble into rehearsal. Recently, I haven’t been concentrating much on my
responsibilities as Lysander. I need the help.

S
O THAT
’
S
C
HRISTINE
.

We’re sitting in the front of the theater—squip’s advice. It says that if you’re in class or some other mandatory dorky place, you sit in back to show you hate it, but if
you’re in something you’ve
volunteered
for, you sit up front to show you’re the f_ _ _ _n_
best
at it. Mr. Reyes is going on about the importance of blocking and
physical humor in “the work,” which is “the very pinnacle—
maaaaaaaa!
—of Shakespeare’s comedies.” The squip tells me a faulty squip might be making
him talk like that.

I try to stay focused on Christine. Isn’t she pretty? I bet
she
doesn’t have an infected nipple.

S
HE
’
S OKAY
.

She’s two seats to my right, next to Jake; I don’t like sitting so close to her in these rows. It’s easier to be next to her in a circle, where the curve of our seating lets me
eye her without turning my head. Here, I have to actually
look
at her to see her—and she notices.

J
EREMY
,
WOULD YOU STOP WORRYING
? Y
OU DON
’
T NEED TO LOOK AT HER
. S
HE
’
LL HEAR ABOUT YOUR EXPLOITS AND GRAVITATE TOWARD YOU NATURALLY
,
BECAUSE OF PHEROMONES
.

Exploits? I don’t know if mouthing a diseased breast counts as an “exploit”…and what’s a phero—

Ow!
Something snaps the back of my neck; I swivel to see Mark Jackson laughing fifteen rows behind me with his Game Boy. All that thumb work has given him some aim with rubber bands or
staples or whatever it was. I instinctively reach for my Humiliation Sheet, then remember: the squip made me throw them all away. D
ON
’
T BE A COMPLETE
SCHMUCK
, J
EREMY
, it had said. T
HIS ISN
’
T A SITCOM
. N
O ONE WILL FIND THOSE
“
CUTE
.”

I
GNORE
M
ARK
. W
E
’
LL DEAL WITH HIM IN A MINUTE
. L
ET ME EXPLAIN ABOUT
PHEROMONES
.

Okay.

P
HEROMONES ARE YOUR BODY
’
S CHEMICAL SIGNALS
. T
HEY CAN BE ODORLESS AND COLORLESS
,
BUT TARGET FEMALES
PICK THEM UP
. T
HE MOST COMMON THING THEY DENOTE IS SEXUAL AVAILABILITY
. W
HEN YOU HAVE ANY KIND OF ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER
,
LIKE
THE ONE WE JUST HAD IN THE BUSHES
,
YOUR BODY RELEASES ALL SORTS OF
“
JUST GOT SOME
”
PHEROMONES THAT FEMALES PICK
UP ON
. H
OW DO YOU THINK GUYS WITH GIRLFRIENDS BECOME SO ATTRACTIVE TO OUTSIDE FEMALES THAT THEY
’
RE FORCED TO CHEAT
? P
HEROMONES
.

Well, sh_ _! Can’t you
make
some of them?

C
AN
’
T
. N
EXT GENERATION WILL
.

Next generation of what? People?

N
O
,
SQUIPS
,
OBVIOUSLY
. I’
M
2.5. Y
OU SHOULD SEE WHAT THEY HAVE PLANNED
FOR
4.0.

What about 3?

O
H
, 3
IS COOL TOO
. B
UT
4.0
HAS STUFF
I
CAN
’
T EVEN
TALK ABOUT
.

Right.

N
OW
LET
’
S DEAL WITH
M
ARK
. G
ET UP AND WALK BACK TO HIM
.

Mr. Reyes has finished talking and some of the actors are going on stage to block a scene, so nobody notices me striding to Mark’s seat. The squip has a great plan, and I execute it
perfectly.

“Hey, Mark, did you shoot some crap at me before?” I ask, standing in the aisle beside his row.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Then snickers.
Grrr
. I walk toward him, climbing over seats. As I get close, the screen on his Game Boy SP
starts to shudder, like interference on an old TV signal. My head hurts. Y
OU
’
RE GIVING OFF A LOT OF ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION
. O
F COURSE IT
’
S GOING TO HURT
.

I make my voice as menacing as I can, which isn’t too menacing, but hey—the squip showed me how to tap into new depths of my vocal cords. “Don’t ever f_ _k with me again,
Mark,” I rumble. His screen is freaking out now. He looks up in total disbelief. I pull back like in the PG-13 movies and clench my fist and bring it down and punch him—in the neck. I
meant to hit his face, but uh…I hit his neck.

“Ow! _ _ _t!” Mark grabs his neck. I punched as hard as I could, but he’s not bleeding or anything! T
HAT
’
S BECAUSE YOUR BODY IS
INCONSEQUENTIAL
, J
EREMY
. M
ORE PUSH
-
UPS
. “What the fu_ _ is wrong with you, dude? I didn’t
do
anything!”

“What’s going on back there, hmmmm?” Mr. Reyes shouts from his stool on stage. “Jeremy?”

I must look a little suspicious, standing over Mark with my fists clenched, panting, with Mark’s neck all red. But I look down at the Game Boy SP. The actual game has vanished. It just
says, in white on black lettering:
DO NOT DICK AROUND WITH JEREMY HEERE OR YOU WILL DIE
.

“Nothing, Mr. Reyes!” Mark pipes up, quite chipper. “We’re just messing around, that’s all!” And then he actually hugs me, the second hug today I’ve
gotten from a former foe; I sit down next to him to make a nice scene for Mr. Reyes. His screen clears and he goes back to playing Kill All People 3.

“Are you some kind of demon or something?” he shudders, not looking at me.

“Nothing like that at all.”

D
OESN
’
T IT RULE TO HAVE POWER OVER SMALL
-
SCALE ELECTRONICS
?

S
O IF WE
’
RE EVER GOING TO GET WITH
C
HRISTINE
,
WE
’
VE
GOT TO PREP HER
.