Boy Proof (8 page)

“Twice they fell between the rocks of Gron Golder. And we would not make the same mistake again,” I say.

Zach Cross sticks his finger in my mouth and lowers himself to my lips in a kiss.

“They’re coming,” he says. He is Uno now. He is wearing his tight black T-shirt and patent-leather pants. His hair is gelled back. His sunglasses are on. I hear the enemy scuttling toward the door.

“No!”

The guns are out. The shooting begins. Uno crumbles to the floor, and when I turn the body over, I discover that it’s Max that’s lying there dead.

I wake up in a sweat. I go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. I know why I am having these nightmares. I go back to my room and pull this week’s trigonometry quiz out from underneath my mattress:
52%,
it says. Next to it is a red frowny face.

It is the worst grade I have ever gotten in my life.

I cannot fail. Can. Not. Fail.

I open up my trig textbook and begin to study. There is a whole new chapter to learn. I’ve read it twice, but I still feel weak about it. Astronauts use this to calculate stuff. Egg knows these equations so she can pilot her planes. I should know it, too.

The worry is eating me alive.

I always wait until the second bell rings before I begin slowly taking off my street clothes and putting on my gym clothes. I don’t want anyone to see my body, but I have to get out onto the gym floor before the late bell rings. It’s a fine balance of time. And I have to make it work. Six late marks equal failure.

I slide my eyes over to the girls who know how to stand nonchalantly in underwear, just chatting. The group includes Nelly and Inez. Nelly’s leg is up on the bench between the lockers and she is rubbing glitter lotion onto her calves.

How did girls like that become so comfortable with their bodies? How did I miss out on that lesson?

I am uncomfortable in this body.

I cannot wear a cute tank top with confidence.

I listen like a fly on the wall. It doesn’t matter to them that I’m there. Because I’m the Invisible Girl.

“Well, I think Max Carter is cute,” Nelly says. “There’s just something about him.”

“Yeah, but he’s always got his nose in that little sketchbook. It’s kind of creepy,” Inez says while fixing the braids in her hair.

“It’s not creepy. It’s mysterious. He’s totally driven,” Nelly says. “He’s really smart and cultured. He’s so not a boy.”

I suck my lips in and mock her to myself.

“Maybe you should ask him out,” another girl says.

“Yeah, maybe I should. I love talking to him. He’s so deep.”

The lockers slam shut and the voices echo down the hallway to the door to the gym until it’s just me and the tick of the large caged clock.

I smart a little. A pinprick. I’m used to envy, but this pain is different.

Max Carter has deep conversations with someone other than me.

There is something about my face that looks all wrong. I can’t put my finger on it.

I circle the positive of my own head and examine it carefully, making notes.

I could extend my brow. Bubble it out. Turn it into a classic-looking extraterrestrial.

I could make my nose gill-like and turn it into an aquatic creature.

I could thin out my lips. I could remove my own mouth. I could round out the chin.

Dad looks up from adding tiny pearls next to the eyes that cover the shell of a sea monster.
Kilnoa of the Deep
is the name of the film he is currently working on.

“See how the actor will fit in here?” He points to a small compartment in the shell.

I move off my bench and circle the shell to the back where wires and grips make up the servomechanism that will move the hundreds of tiny eyes on the shell.

“How long will it take the actor to get made up?” I ask.

“About six hours. It will be a lot like torture,” Dad says. “But it’s going to look fantastic.”

My dad is beaming. He can make something from someone’s most outrageous imagination turn real.

“The idea is that pollution in the ocean is irritating the giant mutant shells, and they’re not just producing harmless pearls anymore,” he says.

The wheels in my mind start to spin.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

I take some of the clay and slap it on the positive. I will turn myself into a birdlike creature, slicked with oil. I pull an old newspaper out of the garbage can, one with the pictures of the thousands of birds caught in an oil spill. I rip out the biggest picture and bring it back to the table to use as a guide.

Dad glances at the picture.

“What a tragedy,” he says. He notices the beak I have begun to extend on the cast. “You going to use the picture as a guideline?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m going to make a statement.”

I watch from my usual spot at lunch instead of concentrating on my Global History textbook. Nelly is talking to Max Carter. She is sticking out her breasts. She’s pushing her cute glasses up on her nose. She’s presenting him the nape of her neck. She wants him to bite it.

I dissect Nelly. She’s pretty, but not
that
pretty. She’s normal. She’s nice. She’s friendly.

Now that Max sits with Nelly, he never comes and tries to sit with me. In this one small moment of scrutinizing Nelly, I have to admit that Max has good taste in preferring to sit with her over me.

Maybe I’d like to be her. Maybe if I tried, I
could
be her. Then again, maybe not.

Even history’s steady march can’t keep my attention today. I begin to doodle in the margin of my notes while nibbling at my sandwich.

Finally I give up on eating. I’m not hungry. I fold the plastic wrap back around my sandwich. Maybe I’ll be hungry later. Max finishes his conversation with Nelly and walks away. He walks toward me. I move over on the bench to make more room for him.

What do I think I’m doing?

But Max doesn’t even look up as he passes me by. He leaves me alone just like I want. Just like I told him every day when he tried to sit with me.

He walks by without stopping to show me that he respects my space. But I feel disappointed, like maybe for once I want something different to happen. Maybe for once I do want the company.

Ms. Dicostanzo sweeps into the
Melrose Lion
meeting. Everybody looks up from the work they’re doing on the new issue. She’s holding up the school paper that came out earlier today. She’s beaming.

“This is the best issue for which I have ever had the privilege to be faculty editor. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

She starts clapping, and her French-tipped nails click and her spangly bracelets bang together. She is a noisy person.

Everyone claps along, because, I’ve noticed, people like to appreciate themselves.

I’m the only one not clapping.

“Egg, your photo-essay is fantastic. Nelly, your story is inspired. And Max”— she beams at Max, who looks at his folded hands —“you are
sublime.
”

“Yeah, it’s such a great cartoon, Max,” Nelly says, her eyes all glittery.

“I’m just warming up,” Max says. He’s blushing. Nelly makes him blush.

What is it that makes those two people attracted to each other? Certainly they don’t have much in common. They could only have limited conversations, I’m sure of it. Even if Nelly thinks they are deep.

“I’m so proud that I’m entering this trio into the statewide student journalism competition. I think we really stand a chance,” Ms. Dicostanzo says.

Ms. Dicostanzo likes doing stuff like that. It makes her look good.

“Okay. Down to business,” Nelly says, chest out, pencil in corner of mouth, which makes her look serious. “Anybody got any leads on any cool stories?”

I raise my hand.

“Egg, that’s nice of you to participate,” Nelly says.

I grimace. She just has to point out that I am antisocial.

“There’s a comic book, sci-fi, and horror convention in Pasadena. There’s going to be an exhibit of masks and animatronics from the great masters from movies like
Dracula
to
Terminal Earth,
” I say.

Some people snicker.

Nelly, trying to be the best student editor she can be, pretends to mull it over a minute.

“The exhibit is going to end up at the Smithsonian. It’s an important exhibit,” I add.

“That’s more entertainment-oriented, and I think the
Lion
should be a serious paper,” she says.

“I agree,” Inez chimes in. “We get enough entertainment news every day with all of Hollywood surrounding us.”

“It’s Hollywood
history,
” I say. Why don’t they get it?

“Good suggestion, Egg. I’m glad that you’re beginning to participate. I’m sure you could find some e-zine that would love for you to cover it for them,” Ms. Dicostanzo says.

“Good point,” Nelly says. “Anyone else?”

Max raises his hand.

“I think we should cover the Buns Not Guns show taking place downtown this Sunday,” he says.

“Buns Not Guns?” says Inez. “What kind of show is that?”

“It’s an organization that sends food to needy communities around the world, instead of weapons,” explains Max.

“Oh,” says Inez. “That’s cool.”

I’m looking out the window, listening, but from a distance. Buns Not Guns has an interesting ring to it. I look over at Max and he is standing there matter-of-factly. His face is serious and it’s obviously something important to him. There is clarity in his eyes. A focus. His thinking it’s important piques my interest. It compels me to sit up and take notice. It makes me want to go and check it out.

“Ooooh. That sounds so alternative,” Nelly says. “I’ll go with you and review it.”

I catch Max as he slides Nelly a smile.

“What time should I pick you up?” he asks.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and I grab my army bag and leave the meeting. I am sweating. I feel feverish. The cool air outside makes me feel better. I walk out of the building, off of school grounds, and head for Golden Apple Comics. Martin is working today. I will buy some comic books, and I will feel better.