Poster Boy (3 page)

“Gray?”

“Huh?” I removed my eyes from her butt.

“Are you with us?” asked Ciel.

“I'm getting it,” I nodded. She looked doubtful. “Go on,” I said.

I watched the intensity in her face as she wrote out the equation “the ratio of the side opposite a given angle to the hypotenuse” like a magnifying glass focusing sunlight. I imagined a brown spot appearing on the white page of the textbook, then a searing hole, the brown edges spreading outward, the book bursting into…

“So what would you use to solve this problem? Sine or cos?” Ciel looked directly at me, blinding me with her Super Sight.

“It's Hughie's turn to answer,” I said, looking at Hughie.

“What?” said Hughie.

“Come on, man, pay attention,” I said. “One more time for Hughie here.” I shook my head apologetically.

She sighed. “Do you guys really want to pass this class?”

“Yes,” we said in chorus, because to have to take trig all over again next semester would be self abuse.

And not the good kind.

Hughie took his Caramilk bar from his jacket pocket.

“Want this now?”

“No,” she said and started from the top.

* * *

Thanks to Ciel, I passed the quiz. Hughie, too. Not by much, but we passed. The next day was the Christmas Red and Green dance. Boo yeah. Dances at our school kicked ass. I'd bought a red shirt at American Eagle, stuffed a little pine branch in my pocket, sprinkled gold glitter in my hair.

The night of the dance, Davis got a friend of his brother's to buy us some beer which he, Hughie and I drank behind the baseball bleachers beforehand. The ground was all crunchy, our breath cartoon clouds.

Hughie wore a green tunic and tights like Will Ferrell in
Elf
. He had a spliff taped behind the red feather in his green cap.

“This stuff is dank,” said Hughie, lighting up.

“I got some seeds from my half-sister's boyfriend's brother,” said Davis. “I'm going to grow me some blazing, ripping, danking, Mary Jane-me-up-the-ass weed.”

“Have you ever grown anything?” I laughed.

“My dick.”

God, I loved Davis.

We all took one good hit. Then Hughie snuffed it and re-taped it inside his feather.

It was a nice high, all sparkly like the December night. It gave me a feeling of belonging to something bigger than myself, and I could actually relax a little. Or maybe that was the beer part. There were some cool ragged clouds wrapped around a half moon. The more I looked at it, the more I could swear it made the perfect profile of our science teacher, Mr. Sneddon.

I nudged Davis and pointed. “Mr. Sneddon.”

He looked up and laughed.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, and I was sure he understood.

“If only I had my camera.”

“Yeah,” said Davis, and we walked toward the gym.

I was feeling fine as I headed inside to meet Natalie. Saw her in the ticket line with Erin. Skin tight and satiny, her dress was Christmas-ball red and man, did it stimulate. It hung off one shoulder, toga style, and was cut low in the front. A mini cheering section in my head chanted, CLEA-VAGE… CLEA-VAGE… CLEA-VAGE.

When she saw me looking, she did a little turn on her black heels.

“You like?”

“Wow!” I tried to lift my eyes from her chest to her face but they moved at mud speed.

“She made it herself,” said Erin. “In Sewing.”

“Yeah,” I said. In that moment I felt totally in love, not only with Nat but with kowtowing Erin and the ticket sellers, the frowning principal, Ms. Jackson, standing behind them — even the macho jocks laughing down the hall.

“Let's see what you're wearing,” demanded Nat, and I obediently took off my jacket.

She turned up the collar of my shirt. “You look good in red, Gray Fallon.”

“You…” was all I managed.

“American Eagle… nice. And I like the shoes.”

I'd also bought a new pair of off-white skate shoes.

And then, feeling like I'd passed some final test, she slipped her arm in mine, leaned her beautiful head on my shoulder and provided me a direct view down the cleave tunnel.

The DJ was excellent, playing a good range of stuff and not just all techno. A highlight of the evening was getting further acquainted with Natalie's breasts in the equipment room. As long as I didn't mess up her hair or make-up, she didn't seem to mind.

It amazed me that her chest was so radically different from my own. Ridiculously soft, those two things. Quiet, too, unlike Natalie who, between kisses, kept talking about Erin liking some tenth grader named Erin, too, only spelled Aaron.

“That'll be so weird if they go out. Or got married. Wouldn't that be too funny?”

As the dance wound down, I thought to look for Ciel, thank her for the miracle of me and Hughie passing that quiz. It was a strategy move, since I'd need her help even more come final exams.

I asked Natalie if she'd seen her.

“She didn't come. Had some concert thing.” She rolled her eyes.

I was supposed to work at the theater but had called in sick.

“What sort of concert?” I asked, picturing Ciel playing my guitar.

“My mom's like in love with Ciel,” Natalie went on. “Thinks she's the perfect child. I hate that when your parents think somebody else's kid is so great. It's like they want to trade you in.”

“I mean what instrument does she play?”

“The harp.” Nat made a face. “Who plays the harp?”

“Angels?” I said, as Erin and Chrissy rushed over all frantic and pulled Natalie away to share some gossipy secret.

Walking home that night, the dope and beer now a dimmed buzz, I felt stupid content. Like my life was one long smooth road. No bumps, no curves, not even a stop light.

4
The Phone Call

It was a couple weeks after Christmas break. I'd just come home from school and was in the kitchen grabbing a snack — two frozen mini-pizzas, a half-dozen cookies, a pound of milk. Mom was at the table examining some fabric she'd just dyed part “lantern orange” and part “tobacco gold.”

Maggie came into the kitchen limping.

“Hi, sweetheart,” said Mom. “How was your day?”

“What's wrong with you?” I snorted.

“My leg's really sore, okay?” she snapped.

“Wimp,” I added, and she slugged me.

“Ow.” She was surprisingly strong for a wimp.

“What did you do in gym today?” asked Mom, putting down her fabric.

I put the pizzas in the microwave to nuke for three minutes.

“We don't have gym on Tuesdays,” said Maggie. She climbed onto a stool with a groan.

“Maybe it's from skiing?” I said.

Over break our family had gone skiing for the first time ever, meaning snowboarding. I got the knack right away. Being a throbhead with no natural rhythm, Maggie couldn't snowboard to save her life. She'd taken some pretty bad falls but never complained. Just got out there and beat herself up the next day, too. I'm not sure her brain knew she had a body.

“That was weeks ago,” she said.

“Maybe it's taken this long for the pain to register.”

Maggie lifted her foot onto the other stool and examined her calf.

“I don't see a bruise,” she said to Mom, “but there's a bump. Here, feel.”

“We should go skiing over March break.” I'd found out that Nat was going up with Erin's family.

Mom felt Maggie's leg. “A ganglian cyst, most likely, Magpie. They're harmless.”

“Ganglian,” Maggie repeated.

“If you purchase a lift ticket before February first you save twenty percent.” I'd been doing research.

“We'll see, Gray.” She turned back to Maggie. “I had a ganglian cyst on the web between my thumb and forefinger once and it went away on its own after a few months.” She patted Maggie's leg.

“We could stay at the — ”

“My doctor at the time,” laughed Mom, “told me there's a tradition of taking Bibles to these cysts. Thumping the bump, he called it. Supposed to work.”

“Shall I get the hammer?” I said.

“Get away from me,” said Maggie.

“Get your sister the ice pack, please, Gray?” said Mom.

“If you say we'll go skiing.”

She gave me her exasperated look. “Don't push it, Gray. Now, Maggie, go put your feet up and ice your leg for ten. It'll be fine.”

“Catch.” I tossed the ice pack across the kitchen. Maggie wasn't ready for it and it smacked her on the shoulder.

“Ow! Thanks a lot, Graydumb.” My full name was Graydon.

“Gotta work on those reflexes.” The microwave beeped.

She picked the ice pack up off the floor. “Oh, my back hurts, too.”

Mom put her lips to Maggie's forehead, then lifted her hair to do the same to the back of her neck.

“Are you drinking enough water? Go put your feet up and I'll bring you a — ”

“But I need to cook rice for my science project,” huffed Maggie. “And sterilize three jars. I have to take observations for ten weeks.”

Maggie had decided on the water project. But because she didn't have the conditions to study ice crystals, she was doing her experiment using cooked rice, which contained water. This was also in the Japanese guy's book. You put the rice in three different jars. One jar you ignored, one you said nice things to and one you yelled at. Then you observed what happened to each over several weeks.

It sounded hokey to me but, hey, it wasn't my project. Thank God.

“How do you cook rice?” Maggie was brainy at brainy things and a retard for ordinary everyday stuff.

“Read the package, why don't you?” I escaped downstairs with my food to pound some music and see if Nat was online.

* * *

A week later, Maggie and I were making our lunches for school. She kept harping on about her right arm being asleep.

“It's been almost an hour and it won't wake up,” she whined. “It's all tingly and numb.”

I leaned over and put my face next to her arm.

“Wake up!” I yelled, and she elbowed me in the face. I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back.

“Is it awake now?”

She gasped and, instinctively, I let go. Tears sprang to her eyes as she grabbed her forearm.

Maggie never cried when I tortured her.

“You
are
turning into a wimp.”

She didn't smile, didn't hit me, just took deep breaths.

“Sorry,” I said, because I guess I actually hurt her. “You okay?”

She nodded and winced at the same time.

When I told Mom about it later, she lowered her voice and said, “I think your sister's about to get her period.”

Oh, gawd. Too much information.

“Don't look like that, Gray,” she said to my retreating back. “It's part of the cycle of life and something to celebrate. I'm planning to take her downtown for lunch when it…”

I plugged my ears and hummed the national anthem.

* * *

By Sunday, Maggie's arm still hadn't woken up. The pain in her calf was back along with the limp. Her back still ached whenever she bent over, yet she showed no signs of a cold or flu or the big exclamation mark.

Dad thought she should be checked out. Being Sunday, he took her to a drop-in clinic. The doctor said there was a virus going around that affected the limbs and not to worry. He sent her home with some Tylenol.

Sunday nights we watched
Lost
together. It was the one show we all got into. Dad claimed the Lay-Z-boy, as always, and Maggie got my spot on the couch so Mom could massage her feet, which meant I got Maggie's uncomfortable beanbag chair.

Watching Maggie's foot in Mom's hands, I was jealous as hell. I couldn't remember the last time she'd given me one. Mom's foot massages felt unbelievably dope. I was starting to think Maggie was probably faking.

“It might be growing pains, Magpie,” said Dad during a commercial — some cool car with a TV in it, speaker-phone and built-in iPod.

“Gray,” said Mom, “do you remember having growing pains when you were little? You'd have trouble getting to sleep. I'd rub your legs and — ”

“In my knees.” I remembered how they ached and kind of burned.

“It's a question of mineralization,” explained Dad. “The bones are growing faster than the body can nourish them.”

“Dad would make you warm milk,” said Mom.

“With honey and butter.” I remembered loving the taste of that milk but that it didn't seem to help.

“And you'd sleep with ice packs under your knees.”

“Ice doesn't sound good but warm milk does,” said Maggie.

“Can't hurt,” said Dad.

“Gray, pop a mug of milk in the micro,” Mom said.

“But the show's going to — ”

“Gray, just takes a minute,” said Dad with that tone that instantly made me feel like a jerk.

“Honey but no butter, Gray,” said Maggie. “And a pinch of cinnamon.”

“Faker,” I whispered, getting up.

“Am not,” she hissed.

“You better be really sick.” I gave her a whap on the head.

* * *

Humans, like rats, Dad often said, could adapt to anything. The pins-and-needles feeling in Maggie's arm didn't go away, but she stopped talking about it. I watched her squat to pick things up. She sat whenever there was a chair nearby. Still limped a bit, though.

Mom watched and waited for the red-letter day. Dad made lame jokes about fitting her out with fake limbs and bought Maggie's favorite ice cream — cherry jubilee, which I couldn't stand — “for the calcium and general cheering power.”

Basically, I ignored her. Besides, I was busy studying for exams (with snooty girl's help), working at the Cineplex, hanging with my buds and Natalie's breasts, taking dope photos, gaming, hanging with my buds and Natalie's breasts…