Be More Chill (2 page)

My notebook isn’t open. It’s being used as a Humiliation Sheet shield. My neurons aren’t depolarizing. (I learned that in bio.)

Mortification Event number two.

At lunch I seek out my best friend Michael Mell. Michael sits in a different place in the cafeteria every day—sometimes the indoor part with the long Formica tables,
sometimes the outdoor part with the scarred picnic benches and giant bees—but you can always spot him because he’s a tall white boy with a white-boy afro and
huge
headphones.
They have a cord coming off them that’s spiraled like an old phone cord. The headphones let him plunk down anywhere, with the jocks or Warhammer nerds or at one of the girl tables (although
Michael only sits with Asian girls). No one bothers him when he has them on because he’s obviously got important things on his mind.

“What’s up?” I say as I approach. Michael doesn’t listen to a thing in those headphones during lunch. He just likes how they feel on his head.

“Mmmmgph,”
he says, wolfing down a fish-patty sandwich with cheese and chocolate milk. “’Sup?”

“Big problems,” I say.

I pull the chocolate Shakespeare out of my pocket (it’s wrapped in Victorian era–style foil), plop it on the table, and prop my elbows up to either side of it. “I don’t
think I can give this to Christine.”

“
Mmmmrrrr
, yuh.”

“Michael.”

“Yuh.”

“You want to finish that?”

Michael smiles and lets chewed fish-cheese roll through the gap in his teeth. It plats onto the tray in front of him.

“Crackhead,” I laugh. “People are going to see you.”

“Uh-nuh,” Michael says; his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as his food slides away. “Yeah, so, ah,” he drinks milk, wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist.
“What’s with Christine? You pussying out?”

“Yeah, well.” I haven’t touched my food. “It’s bad.”

“What’s bad? I totally know how it is. Did you say something dumb to her?”

“Well, no, but people
think
I did. Which is basically the same thing.”

“No,” Michael says, working on an orange ice cream bar now. “You doing something and people
thinking
that you did it are actually really different.”

“Well, people
think
I gave her a letter.”

Michael’s body rocks. He grins: “‘I’ve got your letter! / You’ve got my song—’” I punch him in the shoulder. “Ow!”

“No Weezer, okay?”

“I’ll try.” Michael folds his hands. “So who
thinks
you wrote Christine a letter?”

“Jenna Rolan. She also said I was her ‘new stalker.’”

“You’re such a girl.” Michael gets up and slides his tray into a nearby garbage can. “So what? Does Christine care? That’s who’s important, right?”

“Yeah, she’s who’s important, but she’s not the only thing that matters in this whole…situation,” I say, making circles with my hands to emphasize
situation
. “It’s like, do I still give this to her or not? Will it seem too stalkerish?”

“Jeremy.” Michael fixes buttons on his shirt. “That chocolate Shakespeare is genius. She’s gonna love chocolate, because everybody does, except for those weird people who
only like chips”—Michael glances one table away at a red-headed girl eating chips—“and she’s in a Shakespeare play with you, so obviously she’s gonna like
Shakespeare.”

“But what if she thinks I’m an obsessed loser?” I start in on the bean salad on my tray. It came cold but feels colder.

“Dude,” Michael says. “Think of how you’ll feel if you
don’t
give it to her. Think of how you’ll feel at home tonight, jerking off, having missed your
chance.”

“Oh yeah. Well, duh, I’ll feel like…” Like I do all the time, like I feel whenever I can’t dial a phone number or dance at a dance or hold a hand right. Like
I’m used to feeling. “Like shit.”

“Right, so give it to her—”

“Yo, tall-ass, could you maybe sit or move from the garbage can?” Rich says to Michael. Rich has come on the scene; that’s what he does best. He’s shorter than us but
very built. He has blond hair with a streak of red in the back, like a rooster. Michael moves aside and Rich dumps his whole tray, including the actual tray, into the trash. He eyes us.

“What? Punks.”

At the end of the day I walk Middle Borough’s elongated and well-painted hall—my school has one giant hallway that you enter in the middle of, so the whole place is
like the Great Wall of Metuchen, New Jersey, with the echoes of the swim team at one end and the sound of the theater door opening and closing at the other end, where I’m going.

So far, in high school (I too have an extensive middle-school career), I’ve been in
The Tempest
and
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
to rave reviews, both times, from
my mom. I like everything about school plays—being at school after school, learning my lines in the bathroom, how the performance always seems totally screwed up a week before it goes on, but
then comes together at the last minute, how the second show always manages to be better than the first, how everyone takes their bow at the end and the parents are standing, showing off their
digital camcorders, and your costume is hot, but you figure, okay, that’s the price of my art and then—Bam! Cast party! I love cast parties. I’ve never been to one, actually,
truthfully, but I’m sure they’re great.

“Hey, you’re in this play?” I ask Mark Jackson from math as I sit down next to him. Mark’s my friend, sort of.

“Yeah, I’m in this dilly deal,” he says. He’s playing Game Boy SP. “What’s it called again?”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,”
I say. “You don’t even know the name of your own play?” Only I don’t say that.

“
Midsummer Night’s Dr
izz-
eem
. Gotcha.”

I sit down two places from him in a seat that looks like it was stained with condom residue—not that I would know, except for that one time in my room when I was messing around with one to
see what it would look like in the mirror—

“Hot. Hot to death,” Mark says.

“What?”

“I’m talking to the game, yo. Mind your beeswax.”

I look over at Mark’s game, or, uh, “beeswax,” as the case might be. It looks like he’s driving an SUV on underground train tracks shooting a high-powered rifle at
homeless people.

“No peeking, dorkus malorkus,” Mark says, snatching his Game Boy away, imperiling his driving and shooting. “I’m the only one in the school with KAP Three; you gotta pay
me five bucks to look at it.”

“What’s KAP Three?”

“Kill All People. Three.”

“Uh…”

“You never heard of Kill All People? What’s
wrong
with you?” Mark eyes me. I sit silent, keeping my head and mouth steady, staring ahead. After a few seconds, Marks
slides down a seat, like I have herpes. (Or lupus, right? Lupus.) Then I move down a row.

“Fuck, Jeremy, you don’t have to be such a bitch,” he remarks as I take my new seat. Just then Christine, uncharacteristically late for something, walks down the aisle past us.
She rolls her eyes at Mark and while she’s doing it, it is possible that they land on my person for a millisecond or two. Wow. When’s the teacher getting here?

“Aaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Mr. Reyes shrieks from the entrance to the theater. “
Mwaaaaaaaa!
Greetings all! I’m not sure you realize it, but I have a very powerful
falsetto voice!
Baaaaaaaaaaa!
”

“Damn, this dude is fruit-aliciously homo-rific,” Mark says behind me. Little digital homeless people groan as they die on his Game Boy SP.

“It is wonderful to see you here!” Mr. Reyes gets on stage behind a mic, which he does not need. “I am glad to have such a captive audience for my voice.
Laaaaaaaaa!
I
am also very glad to have such a wonderful cast; we are going to have a great time in the play.” Mr. Reyes is tall and skinny with no facial hair; he wears a suit and tie. He teaches English
for his day job.

“So let’s see who’s here, and I will give you all your parts. Jeremy Heere!”

“Yes.” I get up.

“There’s no need to stand. You must simply know that you have gotten the role of Lysander. This is a very demanding role that will take much of your time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reyes.”

“Jake?”

Jake Dillinger is in this play too? Guess it isn’t enough to be on the football team and nail a Czechoslovakian model and be a leader in the SU. Down in front, he shifts in his seat
slightly to acknowledge Mr. Reyes.

“You are going to be Demetrius, another tough role. Get ready to memorize much-ly.”

“Cool,” Jake says.

“Puck? Where is my Puck? Christine Caniglia?”

Christine is now down in front, near Jake; all I see is her blond hair.

“You’re kidding!” she squirts. “I’m
Puck
?”

“You, young lady, are Puck.”

“Yes!” Christine jumps out of her seat, pumping her fist. Everyone eyes her with respect and swelled-up cutesy pride, or maybe that’s just me; when girls get happy and jump out
of their seats, like on
The Price Is Right
, it’s sweet to watch.

“Don’t get too excited, Christine; it’s a disgusting number of lines.
Maaaaaaah!
” Mr. Reyes moves on through Hermia, Helena, Titania, Bottom, and about a dozen
other people. Mark, behind me with his Game Boy, gets to be some kind of cross-dressing elf. That’s comforting.

“Okay, those are the roles; now we must have the read-through. Ladies, fetch two metal chairs each and bring them on stage.”

“Wuh?” The girls down in front look confused. (It’s funny how they look confused from behind, with their shoulders bunched up.) Christine is the only one I hear: “How
come we have to get the chairs?”

“Come come, it’s a trade-off each time,” Mr. Reyes says. “The men will be on chair-fetching tomorrow. Speaking of which, men! Pick a representative to go to the
Teachers’ Lounge and have them microwave my Hot Pocket!”

“For the whole play?” I ask. I don’t want to get stuck with
that
job.

“No, Jeremy, just for today. Next time the girls will pick someone to go.”

“I don’t understand,” Mark says behind me, actually pausing KAP Three. “Could you explain that again, please?”

“Hugggggh,”
Mr. Reyes says. “On day one the girls will set up the chairs and the
guys
will pick a representative to get my Hot Pocket; on day two the guys will
set up the chairs and the
girls
will pick a representative to get my Hot Pocket; then it repeats.…Does anyone have a question about this?”

Yes, of course: someone up front has one, and another, and another. When we finally get it all sorted out, this kid Jonah with a lisp fetches the Hot Pocket as the girls lug furniture, and then
Mr. Reyes brings us on stage, where we sit in a circle of chairs (the girls made it a bit small) as if it were time for Duck-Duck-Goose, but really it’s a read-through of
A Midsummer
Night’s Dream
, and really I’m not a little kid; I’m in high school. I have to remember that.

I grab the seat next to Christine’s in the circle.

“So, uh, congratulations,” I say quietly, speaking to the air in front of me and hoping she’ll notice, “on Puck.”