Hello Groin (21 page)

Our eyes were doing an odd kind of dance—meeting, then flitting away, then meeting again. Flit flit flit—we could have been late-season mosquitoes.

“How come you’re not helping him?” I asked, pulling a book off a filing cart, then putting it back again. As usual, I was in a
funk. Everywhere I touched, I left a trail of sweaty guilty fingerprints.

Get a grip
, I thought.
This is, like, your best friend since grade three
.

Joc shrugged again. “I don’t
want
to build sets for Hamlet the Turd,” she said. “What’re you doing after school?”

Our eyes did another flit-flit.

“Nothing,” I shrugged back.

“Come over,” she said. “There’s leftover pizza—ham and anchovies, your fave. We’ll put on Morissette and get jagged. Unless...”

She hesitated, then added, “You have to meet Cam, of course.”

“He’s got practice,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Yeah,” grinned Joc. “That’s what I figured. Dikker’s got
Hamlet
, me NOT.”

As I grinned back, the warning bell rang, practically sending us both leaping out of our skins.

“Oh god,” I moaned, glancing at the clock. “Ms. Fowler isn’t back, and I have to get to my locker before English.”

“Wing it,” said Joc. “We’re still doing
Foxfire,
and you’ve got the whole book memorized, don’t you?”

An electric vibe passed between us, so tangible I could almost touch it.

“Have you read it yet?” I asked, my eyes flitting past hers.

“Maybe,” she grinned, then pushed through the turnstile, out the library door and into the crowded hall.

Chapter Seventeen

I made it from my locker to English in twelve seconds flat, just beating the bell, and dropped into my seat in time to hear Mr. Cronk inform the class that the next two days were to be spent working in preassigned discussion groups. I guess he figured Joc and I already spent enough class time together in discussion, because he placed us in different groups. So when we met up at the bike racks after school, we hadn’t had a chance to talk since lunch. And of course, I’d spent the entire afternoon inside my head, trying to work out every possible angle on our short conversation in front of the library display case. Which meant that by the time I got to my bike, I was a supersonic bundle of nerves. I mean, I was in a dead sweat just trying to keep my heartbeat somewhere
near
normal.

“Hey,” said Joc, coming up behind me.

“Hey,” I replied, hoping the sudden heat wave sweeping my face was not as obvious as it obviously was.

Our eyes did some more of the flit-flit thing, and then I just started pushing my bike toward the street. At the curb there was an awkward moment as Joc got on behind me and I pushed off and started pedaling. Then she hooked a finger through one of
my belt loops and started waving with her free hand, calling out to kids we were passing. As usual, I was doing the legwork, and she was being the social butterfly.

“Tim might be home,” she hollered as I pedaled over the Dundurn Street bridge. “I hope he hasn’t gulped all the pizza.”

“If he has, we’ll give him super-nuggies,” I hollered back. Nuggies were a form of mild torture that Tim had taught us in grade three. According to his version you got someone down, then dug your knuckles into his arm and twisted until he hollered, “Spaghetti and barf on the barbecue!” It had to be exactly those words—nothing else would do. Tim figured it was a bigger concession than “Uncle.”

“Agreed,” said Joc as I swerved onto her street. Coasting up the driveway, I braked beside Tim’s Chev and let her get off, then locked my bike to the porch rail. As I straightened, she was opening the front door, her eyes flitting delicately around my head.

“C’mon, Goofus,” she said and went in. Following her through the doorway, I was hit with the usual combo of cigarette smoke and blaring TV. “Hey Rambo,” called Joc, kicking off her shoes and heading into the living room. “Did you leave any pizza for us?”

“Pizza?” demanded Tim, sitting up as we entered. His hair was mashed oddly from lying on the couch, and he still looked oily and greasy from work. “Did I hear you say pizza?” he grinned.

“Yup,” said Joc. “And I also said stereo. As in
loud
. As in we’re sending messages to Mars.”

“The Martians will be pleased,” said Tim. “In fact, they’re beaming an important message to you right now.” Putting both hands to his head, he waggled his fingers and intoned dramatically, “This is the message: Your mother is at work until nine, and she wants, nay,
orders
you to eat ALL the pizza.”

With a whoop, Joc ditched her jacket and headed into the kitchen while Tim hauled himself off the couch and turned off the TV. “What’s your fix, Dylan?” he asked as I hung up my jacket. “What d’you want to hear?”

“Something jagged,” hollered Joc through the kitchen doorway.

“Got any Alanis?” I shrugged at Tim.

“Morissette?” said Tim. Agreeably he flipped through the CD rack. “Let’s see...
Jagged Little Pill, Supposed Former—
”

“
Feast on Scraps
is in my room,” yelled Joc. “In my CD player.”

“I’ll get it,” I called. Taking off down the hall, I angled a perfect slide through her doorway that ended several inches from her CD player. With a satisfied grin, I ejected
Feast on Scraps
, then took off in another perfectly executed slide that took me all the way down the hall. When I got back to the living room, Joc’s and my eyes started doing the flit-flit thing again, so I just handed her the CD without saying anything. Quickly she slid it into the stereo and pushed play. Slow reverb heartbeats began filling the room, and then the first notes of “Fear of Bliss” came on, loud and pulsing.

“C’mon, let’s get the pizza,” said Joc. Following her into the kitchen, I watched as she took several sizzling slices out of the microwave. Then she opened the fridge and beckoned to me.

“What d’you think?” she asked, pointing to a twelve-pack of beer at the back.

A vision of my mother, frowning strenuously, loomed inside my head.
School night,
I heard her say sternly.
You’ve got to be home soon for supper
.

But all I said was, “Whose is it?”

“Tim, we want some of your beer,” Joc yelled over her shoulder.

“You want it, you pay for it,” Tim yelled back. “A looney a can. Fetch me one too.”

With a triumphant grin, Joc pulled three cans out of the pack. Tim was usually pretty possessive with his beer, telling us he wasn’t into corrupting minors and if he caught us stealing any, he would super-nuggie us into a state of absolute terror. That had been enough to convince us to keep our hands off, but today he was obviously in a different mood. Piling the beer and pizza onto two trays, Joc and I carried it into the living room. A second later we were parked on the couch, scarfing down pizza at an unbelievable rate.

“Yeah,” said Joc, holding up her can of beer. “Pizza and beer. Perfect combo, don’t you think?”

I didn’t, actually, and was fighting off a burst of beer fizzies in my nose from swallowing too quickly. But again, I didn’t say anything. To tell the truth, the whole scene had me on edge. Whenever you bring beer into a situation, kids start acting differently. For someone who’s underage, beer is a symbol—of independence, defiance, pushing boundaries. And sometimes, it has to be said, of sheer stupidity. So, like I mentioned before, when drinking beer, slow and thoughtful was my rule. I usually faded back into the crowd and watched other kids drink more than I drank myself.

But this afternoon there was nowhere to fade to. And with all the questions I had revving around my head about Joc, and the way the music was pounding away, and with Tim sprawled oily and greasy on one side and Joc on the other, her leg brushing mine, it was no wonder half my beer was already gone. Tim had completely finished his, and Joc was right on his tail.

“C’mon, Dylan,” said Tim, getting to his feet. “I’m itching for a dance partner.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me up from the couch.

“You too,” I said, taking Joc’s hand, and a second later the three of us were jigging around the room, riding Alanis’ huge throb of sound.

“More!” yelled Joc, turning to the stereo and hitting the stop and play buttons. “I want more ‘Fear of Bliss’!”

Once again the giant heartbeat came on, reverberating through the room. Right away Tim starting twisting like a maniac, jumping all over the beat, and then Joc kicked in, slower but with an all-body movement, as if her entire being was a single thought. Keeping my head down, I jigged along with them, but I was still feeling on edge. The three of us had done this before, jacked up the living room stereo when their mom wasn’t home and danced until our clothes were plastered. But there hadn’t been any beer then, and I’d spent the entire time completely and absolutely ignoring my feelings for Joc while I danced with Tim.

Today those feelings refused to be ignored. Heated and shifting, they were like part of the music. Even though I was facing Tim, my eyes kept turning toward Joc, watching the way she swung her hair as she moved, pulsing it to the beat. Several times already she’d brushed against me—maybe by accident, maybe not.

“I’m dying here,” gasped Tim as a song ended. Sweat beaded his forehead and his T-shirt was plastered. “I’m going for some water,” he added. “Catch you later.”

With a wave he headed down the hall, leaving Joc and me standing in the middle of the room. For a moment I was almost afraid to move. There I was, finally, alone with Joc and practically vibrating out of my skin. I mean, the air around me felt
huge
, electric with possibility.

Before I could say anything, Joc ducked past me and pushed the stereo’s stop and play buttons. Immediately the great reverb
heartbeat from “Fear of Bliss” began filling the room. As Joc turned to face me, I could tell she was a bit tipsy, her cheeks flushed. Sweat had dampened the front of her shirt and she pulled it out of her jeans, grinning at me as she flapped it. Then, without speaking, we started dancing several feet apart, as if the space between us was a conversation we were having, a question, a held breath. Gradually, very gradually, we moved closer. Joc’s arm touched mine, a moment later my hip brushed hers. Each time we connected, it was like touching the impossible, a mild shock, a velvet electric dream.

“Fear of Bliss” ended, and Joc darted to the stereo and hit the repeat button. Then, without saying anything, she walked up to me, slid both arms around my waist, and laid her head on my shoulder. Stunned, I stood absolutely still, absorbing the sweet shock of it, and then the impossibility of the moment vanished, the line had been crossed and I let my body take over, sliding my arms around Joc and moving with her to the music. By now the beer I’d drunk was kicking in, and I was lost in the warm buzz of it, my face buried in Joc’s hair. So I just let my mind do whatever it wanted, while I concentrated on breathing in that familiar coconut scent.

Then, just as my thoughts were really starting to heat up, Joc lifted her head from my shoulder. Startled, I took a step back, but she kept her arms locked around my waist. For a moment we just stood and looked at each other. Joc’s lips were parted slightly, revealing a soft wetness along the inside of the lower one. And I was glued to the sight of that wetness. All I could do was stand there, imagining myself leaning forward and ki—

Taking a quick breath, Joc said, “Dyllie, I—”

Without warning, “Fear of Bliss” cut off mid-note. The change was so sudden, the music ending so abruptly, it was as if a fist of silence had slammed down onto the room. Instantly Joc jerked
away from me, and we turned to see Tim standing by the stereo, staring at us.

“Whooooa girls,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “What is going on here?”

A flush swept Joc’s face, but she raised her chin defiantly. “Just fooling around,” she said. “What’s it to you?”

“Me?” demanded Tim, his chin jutting back at her in a mirror image. “What would your
boyfriends
say if they saw the two of you like this?”

“It’s just dancing,” protested Joc. “Dikker and I always dance with other people at parties. We dance with whoever we want.”

“You call that dancing?” said Tim, his voice skyrocketing. “Why—because your clothes are still on? I don’t know what you’re thinking, Joc, but there’s no fagging around in this house.”

For a second Joc just stared at him. Then she darted forward and shoved him hard in the gut.

“Fuck you!” she shouted. “Just fuck you!”

Taking off down the hall, she slammed the door to her room so hard, the walls shook. In the silence that followed I stood frozen, staring at Tim who was bent double, hugging his gut and moaning.

“I think you’d better go now, Dylan,” he wheezed, dragging himself to the couch and sinking down onto it.

Turning, I stared down the hall, but the door to Joc’s room remained closed. As I stood there stunned, not knowing what to do, I felt it everywhere—silence all over the house, people curled into themselves, no one moving or speaking, just Tim wheezing on the couch. Suddenly then, I was afraid—skin-melting, radioactive, nuclear-gut afraid. Without speaking, I pulled on my jacket and shoes, pushed open the front door, unlocked my bike and took off down the driveway for home.

By the time I got home, most of the beer had worn off, and I managed to brush my teeth before anyone smelled it on my breath. Then I tried to call Joc, but the line was busy. Before I could try a second time, Mom called me for supper. It was Danny’s night to cook, and for some reason he’d ditched his usual meat loaf in favor of chili. Except he obviously had no idea
whatsoever
of the impact a hot chili pepper can have on the inside of the human mouth. Fortunately I’d eaten so much pizza I wasn’t hungry, and everyone else’s attention was too taken up with surviving the food on their plates to notice my mood. As soon as I finished eating, I took off for my room and called Joc again, but the line rang continually busy. Finally, at 8:20, Tim answered, and I just hung up. I didn’t think in advance,
If Tim answers, I’m ditching this
. I just heard his voice, jerked the receiver from my ear and slammed it into the cradle.