said Steve. “He won’t go till everyone’s finished. Sometimes it’s midnight, sometimes it’s three in the morning. The school board had to approve it.”
I pictured Dickless standing outside in the middle of the night, his chest peppered with goose pimples, scrubbing himself with a soap-on-a-rope (a gift from his mother?) while he looked repeatedly, anxiously over his shoulder. It pissed me off to think that only a few weeks ago these boys had played kickball with Douglass, calling him by his correct name, treating him like the quiet, unremarkable boy he was.
But who was I to talk? I’d already made my decision not to shower until I got home.
The week was relentless. Our days were crammed tight with activities—math classes, crafts seminars, athletics—as if our teachers were fearful of leaving us unoccupied. I missed the girls, their precise, intricate outfits, their kindness, their expansive senses of humor. I missed Jane. Without girls, the boys grew wilder, more aggressive, as if shot up with hormones. Gregg Novak, for one, a skinny thing with twig-like arms, lifted me up, spinning me around and around in full sight of seven boys—my legs flailing all the while—if only to show them he could do it.
This wouldn’t have happened back home.
The week creaked onward. I ticked off each day on my calendar, striking it out with a wax pencil, pretending I was doing time at Sing Sing. Soon enough it became clear to my cabin mates—Eric Woodworth in particular—that I hadn’t taken a shower since my arrival. By this time, they’d all showered together and had gotten used to it, barely mentioning Dickless’s name as if he were already old news.
“You haven’t taken a shower,” said Woodworth one night.
“Yes, I did,” I answered. “Two nights ago. You weren’t paying attention.”
He knew I was lying. I stared at his slight chubbiness, knowing that at twenty he’d be ugly, fat, and unlovable. I didn’t know why this comforted me. He glanced over at the top bunk. “Hey, Strandberg, has Sarshik taken a shower yet?”
Steve stared down at his dirty pink feet, utterly silent.
“Your hair’s greasy,” Woodworth said to me. “What’s the matter? You don’t have a dick either?”
“Shut up,” I cried.
I might have downed a glassful of paint. Was I a coward? I couldn’t bear to be talked to like this. It was the moment I’d been afraid of. All at once I leapt up and rummaged through my backpack for my shower supplies.
I hurried to the outdoor shower stalls, leaves rasping beneath my feet. You had to do these things, win the races, catch the fly balls hit to your corner, even if it killed you. If you didn’t do it, you got them mad, and they made you an outsider—someone who was pounced on, spit out like week-old food—and there was nothing worse than that.
But none of these thoughts steadied my pulse.
When I arrived at the stalls I heard a shower running full force, a drain sucking water. I stopped at once. Was it Dickless?
My steps were timid. To my relief Mr. Albertson stood underneath the showerhead, hair flattened to his scalp. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“Hi, Evan,” he said affably. “Beautiful night.”
My throat was too tight to respond. I nodded, then crept inside the changing room. I stared down at the pocked floor, breathing, yanking off my shirt and pants, dropping them in little balls upon the exposed wooden slats. I was going to do this. Once and for all, I was going to get this over with.
Mr. Albertson smiled at my reentrance. I stepped toward the showerhead beside him and turned on the faucet, testing the temperature. I’d never felt more naked in my entire life, my arms like insect feelers, my chest like the cheapest concave trinket—something to be bought at Woolworth’s. Mr. Albertson rubbed the shampoo from his hair. He dug his fists into his tightly closed eyes. I couldn’t stop staring at his hard furry butt, his balls, his dick—alarmingly big,
I pictured Dickless standing outside in the middle of the night, his chest peppered with goose pimples, scrubbing himself with a soap-on-a-rope (a gift from his mother?) while he looked repeatedly, anxiously over his shoulder. It pissed me off to think that only a few weeks ago these boys had played kickball with Douglass, calling him by his correct name, treating him like the quiet, unremarkable boy he was.
But who was I to talk? I’d already made my decision not to shower until I got home.
The week was relentless. Our days were crammed tight with activities—math classes, crafts seminars, athletics—as if our teachers were fearful of leaving us unoccupied. I missed the girls, their precise, intricate outfits, their kindness, their expansive senses of humor. I missed Jane. Without girls, the boys grew wilder, more aggressive, as if shot up with hormones. Gregg Novak, for one, a skinny thing with twig-like arms, lifted me up, spinning me around and around in full sight of seven boys—my legs flailing all the while—if only to show them he could do it.
This wouldn’t have happened back home.
The week creaked onward. I ticked off each day on my calendar, striking it out with a wax pencil, pretending I was doing time at Sing Sing. Soon enough it became clear to my cabin mates—Eric Woodworth in particular—that I hadn’t taken a shower since my arrival. By this time, they’d all showered together and had gotten used to it, barely mentioning Dickless’s name as if he were already old news.
“You haven’t taken a shower,” said Woodworth one night.
“Yes, I did,” I answered. “Two nights ago. You weren’t paying attention.”
He knew I was lying. I stared at his slight chubbiness, knowing that at twenty he’d be ugly, fat, and unlovable. I didn’t know why this comforted me. He glanced over at the top bunk. “Hey, Strandberg, has Sarshik taken a shower yet?”
Steve stared down at his dirty pink feet, utterly silent.
“Your hair’s greasy,” Woodworth said to me. “What’s the matter? You don’t have a dick either?”
“Shut up,” I cried.
I might have downed a glassful of paint. Was I a coward? I couldn’t bear to be talked to like this. It was the moment I’d been afraid of. All at once I leapt up and rummaged through my backpack for my shower supplies.
I hurried to the outdoor shower stalls, leaves rasping beneath my feet. You had to do these things, win the races, catch the fly balls hit to your corner, even if it killed you. If you didn’t do it, you got them mad, and they made you an outsider—someone who was pounced on, spit out like week-old food—and there was nothing worse than that.
But none of these thoughts steadied my pulse.
When I arrived at the stalls I heard a shower running full force, a drain sucking water. I stopped at once. Was it Dickless?
My steps were timid. To my relief Mr. Albertson stood underneath the showerhead, hair flattened to his scalp. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“Hi, Evan,” he said affably. “Beautiful night.”
My throat was too tight to respond. I nodded, then crept inside the changing room. I stared down at the pocked floor, breathing, yanking off my shirt and pants, dropping them in little balls upon the exposed wooden slats. I was going to do this. Once and for all, I was going to get this over with.
Mr. Albertson smiled at my reentrance. I stepped toward the showerhead beside him and turned on the faucet, testing the temperature. I’d never felt more naked in my entire life, my arms like insect feelers, my chest like the cheapest concave trinket—something to be bought at Woolworth’s. Mr. Albertson rubbed the shampoo from his hair. He dug his fists into his tightly closed eyes. I couldn’t stop staring at his hard furry butt, his balls, his dick—alarmingly big,
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