Snark and Stage Fright (17 page)

People loved it.

Girls could speak of nothing but this feat of heroism and were touching the armbands and fawning a little over the guys as if the entire team of the Avengers had assembled in the halls of LHS just to protect them. After glaring at me in poli sci class, two guys on the football team said to each other that they wished they had signed the letter because they’d never been involved in the assaults and looked like sexist pigs anyway. I skipped lunch that day. I didn’t need to witness our classmates hoisting Michael onto their shoulders and declaring him Longbourne’s Savior of Women.

He had even inspired others to heights of chivalry. At dinner, Cassie told me that Leo Haag was getting some guys from the basketball team to sign up to escort the cheerleaders on the bus rides to away games, a solution that Cassie thought would be a lot of fun.

“I know he hurt you this summer and you’re still kind of mad at him,” she told me, “but I think what Michael did was
awe
some. Having bodyguards is going to rock!”

I made myself swallow my bite of kale before I choked on it and pointed out, “You shouldn’t
need
bodyguards. You shouldn’t have to rely on one set of guys to protect you from another set of guys. Especially since Leo himself is not above hooking up at parties with very drunk girls—that’s just as creepy as what the guys did on the bus.”

But Mom dismissed my righteous anger with a wave of her hand, saying, “Well, I think it was very brave and gentlemanly of Michael to do this,” then sighed, “I wish you two would work things out,” with a glance that told me for the hundredth time that she had no idea what happened between Michael and me and would never ask but she was pretty sure that it was my fault.

“Leo is really cute,” Cassie retorted as if his physical gifts had been in question. Then she squealed to Mom, “Maybe he’ll pick me up and carry me onto the bus like the guy in that bodyguard movie you love.”

“Oh my God, Kevin
Cos
tner,” Mom swooned, and they both floated away from the dinner table on dreams of chivalrous rescues.

I threw down my napkin, saying, “I have a lot of homework,” and walked away from the table.

A few minutes later Leigh followed me into the kitchen where I was loading the dishwasher—my turn—and sat at the little table in the breakfast nook, saying, “Are you really mad at Michael about the letter? He was only trying to help Cassie and the other girls. He did a good thing in writing it.”

I spun around as if she were the cause of my fury.

“Don’t you see that it’s awfully
paternalistic
of him to think guys have to solve girls’ problems? Can’t women solve problems for themselves?”

Leigh considered this, chin in hand, then said, “Well, what do
you
think the cheerleaders should have done? I showed Alistair the article and he thinks Michael has a great idea.”

“Yes! But then he’d approve of having the cheerleaders wear burkas, too, so their flesh doesn’t incite any hormonal boys to jump on them or stone them.”

Leigh frowned and I felt bad for attacking her boyfriend when I was really mad at my own ex-boyfriend. But she didn’t back down. She got up and said, hand on hip, “The cheerleaders’ skirts
are
immodest. But I guess that’s tradition.”

I slammed a pot into the bottom rack of the dishwasher and turned to her. “I am not going to argue in favor of those stupid, short, objectifying little skirts. Believe me. They’re a tradition of sexism in themselves.” I stopped, realizing that I was just ranting and not making my case at all. And Leigh was actually listening to me. So I said, “I just wish some boy hadn’t swooped in to the rescue, even if it was Michael, even if he did mean well. I wish the girls would rely on their brains and other resources to defend themselves. To command some respect without the help of a group of boys. Maybe they could all take Tae Kwon Do, or Krav Maga, or something. Learn to defend themselves. They shouldn’t need boys to come along and save them.”

“Why don’t you write an article about that then? About how girls need to stick up for themselves?” Leigh suggested, and the idea was so simple and so right I stared at her in awe for a few seconds before tackle-hugging her and hurrying to my room to write it.

It came out on Friday in a special issue of
The
Alt
devoted to “The Bus Bully Sex Scandal.” This issue featured another long list of boys—this time from the marching band and the science club—announcing their willingness to chaperone the cheerleaders on the buses and I couldn’t help but think that these guys were motivated more by the chance to be seen as heroes and not hopeless band geeks and physics nerds by the cheerleaders, but when I mentioned this to Shondra in Spanish class, she just rolled her eyes. I couldn’t tell if she thought that they were being ridiculous or that I was.

At the eighth period
Alt
meeting, Dave announced as the first order of business that Michael had even been invited to be interviewed on the local news.

“Dude, you should so do it,” Gary said, clapping Michael on the back hard enough to make Michael wince.

Dave nodded in agreement, saying, “I bet this is happening at other schools. You have a forum now to make some change that will matter.”

“I don’t know … ” Michael said, and his face was flushed a bit.

“So, like your childhood hero, Spiderman, you prefer to remain masked and anonymous?” I asked, sounding snippier than I intended. “You’d rather just swoop in and save the day and then fly back to your lair?”

“Spiderman doesn’t have a lair, George,” Gary scoffed. “He lives with his aunt May in New York City.”

Michael looked over at me, eyes darkened, but he didn’t say whatever he had intended because Gary and Dave would not let up on getting him to go on the news. Shondra joked about how stupid and sensational the graphics would be to announce the B
US
W
ARS
story and tried to get me to imagine the absurdly ominous music they would use in the ads for the exposé.

“I
F YOU THINK YOUR DAUGHTER’S SAFE ON THE BUS—THINK AGAIN! THE WHOLE STORY, TONIGHT AT 11
!” Gary yelled in his best news promo voice, but I just sat in silence. I knew that all of this meant Michael’s solution to the harassment problem had actually been effective—so effective it had gained some interest outside the school, and might even become a model for other schools with the same problem. But as I sat there listening I felt all prickly inside like I had swallowed a cactus.

When the bell finally rang and I could escape, I said my goodbyes and headed off to hang out with a bunch of younger kids who knew nothing about bus bullies or feminist heroes. But Michael caught my arm as I tried to walk out the door.

“Do you have a problem with me?” he asked.

I took a breath and replied, “Yeah. The problem is, Michael, you are
not
Spiderman. You can’t just swoop in and save the day and ignore everybody else.”

He looked stunned for about two seconds, but then got his smirk back on. He shook his head as he readjusted the stack of books in his arms and said, “You know, George, I wouldn’t have to ‘swoop in’ if you could solve the problems yourself instead of creating bigger ones.”

I felt hot tears behind my eyes but I was determined not to let him see them, so I bowed and announced, pretty loudly, “Well, on behalf of all of Gotham City, we thank you for your tireless service.”

Gary stopped, put a hand on my shoulder, said, “Gotham City’s
Batman
, George,” and started laughing until he felt how tense my arm was and saw the fire in Michael’s eyes. He backed away, hands up, as Shondra and Dave appeared.

“Let me get this straight,” Michael said. “You’re mad at me because I solved the problem. I solved the problem while
you
just got mad.”

“I didn’t just get mad!” I yelled, right there in the hallway with half of the school swarming its way to the weekend. “I wrote an article for
The Alt.
And I don’t need you to solve my problems!”

“It wasn’t your problem, it was a school problem.” He shook his head dismissively and that made me feel like I had lightning behind my eyeballs. “You’re angry because my article solved the problem and yours didn’t.”

“No one would be aware of the problem if not for George,” Shondra said.

“I didn’t even know you were writing one,” I sort of croaked as someone bumped past me and knocked my backpack with a lacrosse stick.

Michael dropped his messenger bag to his feet and looked at me like he was just noticing that I had a mole or some birthmark he had managed to miss in all the times he had seen me.

Dave stepped between us, saying, “George is right. I should have told you Michael was going to do the letter and that it would appear next to your article.”

Shondra leaned her head on my shoulder for a second in support and said, “It is kind of ironic that you guys were in such a hurry to save a group of girls, you forgot about the girl who started the whole thing.”

Gary nodded, gave me a brotherly punch on the arm, and said, “Can Dave and I walk you to the auditorium as an apology without being sexist assholes?”

“Sure, and you guys are not sexist assholes,” I said, but I was looking at Michael, who was staring down at the bag at his feet.

As we turned toward the auditorium hall, Dave asked Michael, “So what are you going to tell the newspeople when they call you?”

“I should tell them to call George,” he said as he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and disappeared around the corner to the athletics hallway.

***

The next day at lunch, Dave and Gary were disappointed when Michael told them he had begged off of the interview, but I wasn’t surprised. Even if he had stolen the spotlight with his letter and campaign, Michael is the last person I know who would want someone sticking a microphone in his face, even if he had something smart to say.

“Spiderman doesn’t do interviews,” he announced, looking at me over his sandwich. “I’m sorry, George. And those pink armbands were not my idea, for the record.”

“You’re Spiderman?” Diana asked and Michael stopped looking at me and explained how he had read all of the Spiderman comics when he was a kid. She thought his being a fanboy was the most adorable thing ever and kept giggling and touching his arm as he spoke. I remembered seeing the hardbound comic book collection on his bookshelves at the Cape and did my best to tune out their cutesy revelations about childhood interests.

With Diana still giggling, Michael leaned across the table toward me and said, “You’re right, Georgia. You were working on an article and I should have shared my idea with you instead of just taking over.”

I could feel the burn of his eyes on me, but I couldn’t meet them; I was too transfixed by the sight of Diana’s slim fingers covering one of his hands, even though the touch lasted only a few seconds. It wasn’t accidental. It was familiar and meant to comfort and reassure.

“I messed up,” he admitted.

I managed a smile and said, “Well, you know my track record with saving the world. Not stellar.”

He laughed, relieved.

I was relieved, too, and glad that he understood what I had been upset about. But listening to him explain to Diana what the Spiderman joke had been all about and seeing her hand on his made me feel anew that I was truly, and always would be, his
ex
-girlfriend.

14 
Friend Zoned

After school on Monday, Michael caught up with me outside the auditorium as I was on my way to my babysitting duties. I was so startled I almost dropped the stacks of paper and boxes of markers for the younger kids to draw with while the rest of us did homework. He was wearing his track shorts, sneakers, and a faded gray T-shirt; I thought of a phrase I’d read in a Jane Austen novel about a young man having a “well-turned leg.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but Michael’s legs are nice to look at. It was a shame the warm weather was over for the year.

As he held the door open for me and my armful of art supplies, he asked, “Hey, what are you doing Sunday afternoon?”

“Um, nothing I guess?” I sounded uncertain because I was not sure that, if he blew off whatever he was about to suggest we do together as he had the phone call he’d promised a week ago, I’d ever be able to forgive myself.

“Well, want to get together to talk about the history project? You can come over to my house—my mom and dad would like to see you again, and not just because my dad hopes you’ll bring cookies.”

I paused because I hadn’t been to his house or seen his parents since the end of the summer when Dr. Endicott’s receptionist came back from maternity leave and I was out of a job. I knew ringing the doorbell and waiting on his front step would reduce me to tears for all I had lost there. But I said, “Sure, I guess.”

He grinned. “Great!” He turned to head out of the auditorium but turned back to say, “Oh, and good luck on the SATs tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I wondered why he even knew when the test was scheduled—he certainly did not need to retake it, having earned a near perfect score the first time around.

“Well, I gotta run,” he said.

“Literally.”

He laughed and jogged away as I turned to see the three youngest von Trapps running up to me like I was Santa Claus and had just dropped down their chimneys laden with gifts in shiny wrappers.

“Is that your boyfriend?” asked Leila, the redheaded little diva, taking my hand and leading me to the table below the stage where we worked when they weren’t rehearsing. She had never found me this interesting before.

“He’s cute,” squealed Maddie, who played the second youngest daughter and was missing four teeth at once, which looked really adorable on her.

Their interest made me uncomfortable, and not just because they were not yet ten and thus had no business worrying about or even knowing about boyfriends yet.