Band Fags! (3 page)

To be honest, I wasn't that impressed. I mean, what's the big deal about a bunch of naked girls? I think they'd all be so much prettier with their clothes on. Especially the ones with the humongous areolas covering their entire boobs. (Gross!)

Max opened his Dad's top dresser drawer, a pile of black socks and white underwear spewing forth. He was all like, “Check this out.” Sure enough, from beneath the rubble he removed a real-live nudie magazine. Though it was one I'd never heard of before.

“What is it?” Brad asked

“What do you think it is, Asshole?” Max snapped. “Don't tell me you've never heard of O-U-I before?” Which is exactly how he said it. “O-U-I.” Spelling it out.

“I think you mean
oui,
” I corrected. Not that I've ever taken French. But I know O-U-I is pronounced “wee,” meaning “yes,”
en français.

Max was all like, “Whatever.” You'd think he would know a simple French word like “
oui.
” After all, he was in Ms. Lemieux's 6
^th
& 7
^th
hour Enriched English & Social Studies with the Smart Kids.

“This is boring,” Brad decided after we flipped through the magazine for a while. Page after page of naked girls.

To which Max was all like, “What do you mean ‘boring'? This chick is hot.” He turned to the centerfold—a glossy color photo of a pretty dark-haired girl wearing pink lemonade lipstick. With one hand on her boob, her tongue flickered forward. Like she was trying to lick her own nipple. (Gross!)

“Don't tell me
you
wouldn't fuck her,” Max challenged.

Like I've said, pictures of naked girls I can take or leave…So I said nothing. Neither did Brad.

Then Max added, “She totally looks like that girl from Culture Club, doesn't she?”

Brad turned to me, eyebrows raised. Then back to Max and he said coolly, “What girl from Culture Club?”

“You know…The lead singer.”

As much as I hated breaking the news to him, I said, “Um, Max…the lead singer of Culture Club's name is
Boy
George…”

At which point, Brad joined me in perfect unison. “…'cause he's a boy!”

Which is when it finally happened. In our mutual belittling of Max Wilson, Brad Dayton and I formed a bond. We had at last become Friends.

The next night, the three of us sat in the French Room watching
Saturday Night Live
on Channel 4…

“We interrupt this program for a Special News Bulletin…”

“What the fuck?!” Max groaned. He threw a pillow at the TV. We all expected President Reagan or somebody else stupid to come on at any minute.

Till the announcer continued with, “Buckwheat has been shot.” And Eddie Murphy appeared on-screen dressed as our favorite character. Next to Mr. “Can you say ‘Skumbucket?'” Robinson, that is.

We also watched this totally dumb movie on Cinemax called
H.O.T.S.
Which
supposedly
stands for “Help Out The Seals.” But really it's all about these big boobed sorority girls having wet T-shirt contests and playing strip touch football. Stuff like that. Of course, Max totally loved it. Brad on the other hand was all like, “Whatever.” Me, I could take it or leave it.

Once the movie ended, we laid around in bed in the dark, talking about which girls at school we liked and what we'd do with them if we ever got the chance. Actually, Max was the only one lying in bed. Brad and I had the pleasure of sleeping in sleeping bags down on the shag carpet.

“I'm still in love with Lynn Kelly,” I sighed, pressing my pelvis against the floor.

“So am I,” echoed Max, most likely doing the exact same thing against his mattress.

To which Brad—lying flat on his back—said, “I don't think I like
anybody.
”

“What about Carrie Johnson?” I pried. A couple months before, I'd witnessed him sticking his tongue down her throat on the dance floor at the Fun Night.

“I don't know…” Brad sighed. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.

A few days later, we were back at Max's Mom's house on University in Ferndale…

I should probably explain something. Even though I live in Hazel Park, the dividing line for the HP school district cuts off at Hilton Road. Right in the middle of Ferndale. Which is the next city over from Hazeltucky and where Webb Junior High is technically located. So about half of the kids going to school with me live over there.

“They've been
totally
playing this video to death!” I groaned.

We were sitting in the French Room watching MTV when Michael Jackson's “Beat It” came on. Which I'd seen like a bijillion times already.

Max was all like, “Who cares? Martha Quinn is hot!” Totally drooling.

Brad was all like, “Whatever.” Then he got up from the blue faux-velvet love seat and headed towards the kitchen.

“Where the Hell you going?” Max called out.

“To call the Party Line,” Brad informed us, walking away.

In case you don't know—because why would you?—the Party Line is this phone number you call where you can talk to all these different people. Mostly guys. But sometimes girls. I don't know how it works
exactly.
All I know is…you dial an exchange, like 542 or 543 or 545, followed by 9998. Usually you get a busy signal. But sometimes if you're lucky and you keep trying long enough, it'll connect.

“Hello?” As per usual, a guy answered. An
older
guy. Like 18 or 19. Most of the time, they're looking for sex. Sometimes they just wanna talk. But the fun part is…most of the time they think we're
girls.
Because our voices haven't changed yet, probably. “What's your name?”

“Tiffany,” Brad replied, as per usual doing the talking. “What's yours?”

“Chuck,” the guy answered, trying to act all cool.

“Wanna fuck, Chuck?” asked Tiffany.

“How old are you?”

“16.”

“Sweet,” Chuck said, laughing at his own joke. “I'm 25.”

To which Brad was all like, “Perfect…I
love
older guys.”

Meanwhile, Max and I had our ears up to the phone, trying desperately to hear what Chuck was saying and not pee our pants. We were totally cracking up!

“What're you wearing?” Chuck asked next.

“Just my bra and panties,” Brad lied, suppressing a giggle himself.

“Hot…You're totally giving me a hard-on, you know that?”

“Wish I could suck it,” said Tiffany the Total Slut.

At which point, Max's Mom appeared through the back door, home from a hard day's work at Farmer Jack's…

“What are you boys up to?” She plopped a brown paper bag of groceries down on the kitchen table.

“Nothing,” Max said lickety-split. Then he grabbed the phone out of Brad's hand and returned it to the cradle on the wall. “What's for dinner?”

“I'm thinking about ordering a pizza from Randazzo's,” Max's Mom informed us. Which is the best pizza in all of Hazeltucky. “How's that sound?” She kinda reminds me of Annette Funicello. Skippy peanut butter Annette. Not M-I-C-K-E-Y.

In between wolfing down several slices of pepperoni, Brad and I struck up a conversation with Max's sister, Maggie. She's a Senior at Hillbilly High and kinda reminds me of that actress from
Fast Times at Ridgemont High,
Phoebe Cates.

Maggie proceeded to tell us all about how much she hates this Freshman girl we know from Webb, Kylee Belestergaard. Something about her being a Ho-Bag and giving Maggie's ex-boyfriend a blowjob in the Hillbilly High parking lot after the Friday night Varsity Football game. I guess Max didn't appreciate it when Brad and I followed Maggie into her bedroom after dinner. Because pretty soon he was standing outside her door, screaming his head off.

“Mom! Tell Maggie to leave my friends alone.”

“Mom!” Phoebe Cates screamed back. “Tell Max to get off my case.”

“Ma-a-a-x,” Annette Funicello said calmly from the French Room where she sat watching Joan Collins and Linda Evans duke it out on
Dynasty.

“Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?” Max retorted.

“Your friends are the ones talking to me,” Phoebe Cates informed him. Which was true. Brad and I couldn't help it we thought Max's sister was totally cool. Then she added, “I can't help it if they think I'm cooler than you.”

We glanced over at Max. His face was
totally
turning red. He looked like he was gonna cry at any minute. “Fuck off!” he shouted. Causing my and Brad's jaws to drop to the floor.

“What did you say, young man?” Annette Funicello was now up on her feet and in the hall intercepting Max and his sister as they were about to get into a knockdown-drag-out fight. Which was totally hilarious. Max's Mom can't be more than 5' tall and both her kids are
at least
5'5".

“Max?” she said. This time using her “mean” voice. “Tell your sister you're sorry…
Now
.”

Brad and I stared down at the pink and baby blue afghan folded across the end of Maggie's bed. Which is where we'd been sitting the entire time. I wanted to make myself disappear. Only there was nowhere to go. Maybe staying over Max's house while my parents were in Las Vega$ wasn't such a good idea after all!

Suddenly, Max shouted, “I'm sorry for telling my stupid sister to fuck off!”

“What did you say?” Annette Funicello asked for the second time in less than five minutes.

“I'm sorry for telling my stupid sister to fuck off!” Max repeated. This time through tears. As if saying it once wasn't already enough.

To which Max's Mom had no idea
what
to say. So instead, she cracked up laughing. So did Max. Even Brad and I started laughing, too. Though Maggie didn't find it funny. She just rolled her eyes and stood there, hands on her hips, in what we had recently learned during Ms. Lemieux's 6
^th
hour Enriched English is called “akimbo.”

“Now go to your room,” Annette Funicello said, serious as all get-out.

“But—” Max tried to protest.

“I mean it…You're grounded.”

“What about Jackie?” Max knew I was staying for at least two more days.

“I don't care if Jackie's here or not,” Max's Mom informed him. “He and Brad can play together without you for all I care.”

Which is exactly what we did…By the end of my weeklong visit, Brad and I had officially become Best Friends. Which was just about the time our teacher, Jessica Clark Putnam, called us into her office after 2
^nd
hour Varsity Band and closed the door behind us…

I remember it was her birthday that day—May 7
^th
. Somebody said she was turning 30. But I couldn't believe it. She didn't look
that
old. Our Band Aide, Freddy Edwards, brought in a cake his Mom baked especially for the occasion. Freddy's a 9
^th
grade sax player in 1
^st
hour Symphonic. Which is the top band at Webb. And of course,
all
the girls think he's a Total Babe.

Personally, I don't get what's so hot about him. So he's got pretty blue eyes and a nice smile and good hair…Big deal! And so what if he wears cool clothes and he's on the wrestling team. So he's got a nice body. Not that I judge other guys, 'cause I don't.

“Have either of you ever heard about Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp?” Mrs. Putnam asked us.

Brad and I looked at each other, having no idea what she was talking about. But from the expression of pure delight on her face, it must have been someplace special.

“Nestled in the beautiful Manistee National Forest in Michigan's western lower peninsula, Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp is a Summer Music Camp with Dance, Theater, and Art programs for talented young people who come from all parts of the United States and all walks of life.” At least according to the brochure JCP gave us. Which Brad and I both read
at least
a hundred times.

Which brings me full circle to…“Friends hold you back.”

Jessica Clark Putnam smiles, a twinkle in her chestnut-brown eyes as she and I continue standing alone together in the instrument storage room. “Tell you what…If Bradley's
somehow
able to come up with the money, then will you go?”

“Of course.” But how the heck is that gonna happen? Brad's family is so broke, he can barely afford to pay attention!

Sure enough, a week later Mrs. Putnam receives an anonymous donation for $150 for Bradley Dayton. Thus enabling him and me to spend the two longest weeks of our lives at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp.