females.”
“I’ll say I sneaked in. I’ll take the blame,” I said.
“Justin, what precisely is this about? You don’t feel comfortable being alone with me?”
“I like to be with people my age, is all.”
The girls unpacked their gym bags on the beds and I sat on the floor and watched the news. Now that I had a forum for my opinions, current events and social issues gripped me. What’s more, I suspected there might be money in them. TV was filled with analysts and experts who sat around tables politely arguing just as I did in Small-Group Discussion. For the first time since coming back shattered from Camp Overcome, I glimpsed a future for myself. A goal.
I analyzed the news reports as my teammates showered. They emerged from the bathroom in baggy football jerseys, their shampooed hair tied back in fragrant ponytails.
“Who besides me needs a drink?” said Heather Hall. “I brought some licorice schnapps. I just need ice.”
Janna Lindgren produced a rolled-up Baggie. “I’ve got weed, but I need a beer to smoke it with.”
“I could use a beer, too,” said Dora Muntz.
The girls looked at me to solve the problem. I was the man, the favorite, the leader. I dialed the number for Mr. Geary’s room and got an answer before I heard a ring.
“The girls want a twelve-pack of Michelob,” I said. The trick, as in Small-Group Discussion, was confidence.
“You’re asking me to buy alcohol for minors?”
“People do it all the time.”
“Not teachers.”
“We think of you more as a peer,” I said. “A friend.”
A half hour later a knock came at the door and Heather opened it just wide enough to snatch the beer and put money in the hand.
We drew the blinds and cranked up the air conditioner and sat in a campfire circle on the bed talking about Mr. Geary and passing a joint. The girls felt he needed a wife. I disagreed. At one point I touched Heather’s leg by accident, causing a pop of static that made her jump. This led to an experiment. After rubbing against the blankets to raise their charges, Dora and Janna lifted their jerseys and pushed their chests together bra-to-bra. Green sparks flew. When it was my turn I pulled my shirt off and Heather pulled off hers, then reached behind herself to unhook her bra—a white-brawith a pink heart between the cups and frilly stitching along the underside.
The phone kept ringing and we kept ignoring it. The next thing we knew Mr. Geary was in the doorway. The desk clerk must have given him a key. He had on blue flannel pajamas with white stripes and reading glasses that enlarged his eyes.
The girls draped sheets and blankets over their bodies.
“Out in the hall, Justin. Now,” said Mr. Geary.
“I can’t. I’m not dressed.” I held a pillow against myself.
“The honor system is wasted on you people. This is outrageous. I smell dope in here.”
“Stop being such an old woman,” Heather said. “All we’re doing is having a normal slumber party.”
“How did you just refer to me, young woman?”
Heather looked at her friends as if for backup, then faced Mr. Geary square-on. “I think that what I said was: disappear, queer.”
Mr. Geary’s face went white and taut and his soul seemed to shrink away behind his eyes. He backed up into the hall with three quick steps and closed the door so hard it rattled the latch. I dialed his room repeatedly for an hour, then called again when I woke at one A.M ., and each time I sensed the presence of his hand hovering near the receiver.
Finally, I went down the hall and knocked. Blue TV light filtered under the door.
“It’s Justin. Open up.”
“Fuck off. Get out of here.”
The bad language startled me. “Are you all right?”
“I took some pills. I’m trying to fall asleep.”
“How many pills?”
“Not enough. Just let me be.”
In the morning, when everyone gathered at the bus, Mr. Geary had shaved his hair clean off.
In the days leading up to the statewide finals, I became
“I’ll say I sneaked in. I’ll take the blame,” I said.
“Justin, what precisely is this about? You don’t feel comfortable being alone with me?”
“I like to be with people my age, is all.”
The girls unpacked their gym bags on the beds and I sat on the floor and watched the news. Now that I had a forum for my opinions, current events and social issues gripped me. What’s more, I suspected there might be money in them. TV was filled with analysts and experts who sat around tables politely arguing just as I did in Small-Group Discussion. For the first time since coming back shattered from Camp Overcome, I glimpsed a future for myself. A goal.
I analyzed the news reports as my teammates showered. They emerged from the bathroom in baggy football jerseys, their shampooed hair tied back in fragrant ponytails.
“Who besides me needs a drink?” said Heather Hall. “I brought some licorice schnapps. I just need ice.”
Janna Lindgren produced a rolled-up Baggie. “I’ve got weed, but I need a beer to smoke it with.”
“I could use a beer, too,” said Dora Muntz.
The girls looked at me to solve the problem. I was the man, the favorite, the leader. I dialed the number for Mr. Geary’s room and got an answer before I heard a ring.
“The girls want a twelve-pack of Michelob,” I said. The trick, as in Small-Group Discussion, was confidence.
“You’re asking me to buy alcohol for minors?”
“People do it all the time.”
“Not teachers.”
“We think of you more as a peer,” I said. “A friend.”
A half hour later a knock came at the door and Heather opened it just wide enough to snatch the beer and put money in the hand.
We drew the blinds and cranked up the air conditioner and sat in a campfire circle on the bed talking about Mr. Geary and passing a joint. The girls felt he needed a wife. I disagreed. At one point I touched Heather’s leg by accident, causing a pop of static that made her jump. This led to an experiment. After rubbing against the blankets to raise their charges, Dora and Janna lifted their jerseys and pushed their chests together bra-to-bra. Green sparks flew. When it was my turn I pulled my shirt off and Heather pulled off hers, then reached behind herself to unhook her bra—a white-brawith a pink heart between the cups and frilly stitching along the underside.
The phone kept ringing and we kept ignoring it. The next thing we knew Mr. Geary was in the doorway. The desk clerk must have given him a key. He had on blue flannel pajamas with white stripes and reading glasses that enlarged his eyes.
The girls draped sheets and blankets over their bodies.
“Out in the hall, Justin. Now,” said Mr. Geary.
“I can’t. I’m not dressed.” I held a pillow against myself.
“The honor system is wasted on you people. This is outrageous. I smell dope in here.”
“Stop being such an old woman,” Heather said. “All we’re doing is having a normal slumber party.”
“How did you just refer to me, young woman?”
Heather looked at her friends as if for backup, then faced Mr. Geary square-on. “I think that what I said was: disappear, queer.”
Mr. Geary’s face went white and taut and his soul seemed to shrink away behind his eyes. He backed up into the hall with three quick steps and closed the door so hard it rattled the latch. I dialed his room repeatedly for an hour, then called again when I woke at one A.M ., and each time I sensed the presence of his hand hovering near the receiver.
Finally, I went down the hall and knocked. Blue TV light filtered under the door.
“It’s Justin. Open up.”
“Fuck off. Get out of here.”
The bad language startled me. “Are you all right?”
“I took some pills. I’m trying to fall asleep.”
“How many pills?”
“Not enough. Just let me be.”
In the morning, when everyone gathered at the bus, Mr. Geary had shaved his hair clean off.
In the days leading up to the statewide finals, I became
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