Smart
Sheen Estevez is not a smart human being. Some argue that he is not human at all, instead some kind of UltraLord-drone, created to convince human kind that UltraLord is their saviour, or something. I'm actually not sure what they say. I don't listen to it, so much. I tune it out. It helps, believe me.
Anyway, I guess the point is, 'intelligent' isn't a word used to describe him. Sheen isn't dumb, per se, but people seem to think he is. He's just easily distracted, is all! No, I'm not defending some of the outrageous things I— he— does. I— he— I— Oh, never mind. I am Sheen Estevez. Sheen Estevez is me.
But everyone knows that I'm not the brightest crayon in the box. My friends know it, my dad knows it, hell, even my little sister knows it. The only one who doesn't seem to get it, the fact that I'm an idiot, I mean, is Libby. Liberty Folfax. Libby, the love of my life. She's the only one who I've never heard crack a 'stupid' or 'spaz' joke when I'm not quite out of earshot but they think I am. She's the only one who still scowls when I have to defend my obsession with UltraLord. She sees past my shortcomings. It's one of the reasons I'm in love with her.
Back to the issue of me being a dumbass. I'm actually a year older than I should be. It was my fifteen birthday (it should have been my fourteenth) when it all went wrong. Ninth grade was tough enough as it was, socially, without everybody knowing you'd failed a grade.
"Happy fifteenth birthday, Sheen," Jimmy said brightly, handing me a present wrapped in purple UltraLord wrapping paper. I grinned sheepishly.
"You mean, fourteenth," I corrected, taking his offering and tossing it in the pile with the others. My dad had gone a little overboard this year, inviting every person he could think of to my 'surprise party.' ...Even me. It wasn't really that much of a surprise after I got my invitation. I got my brains from my father's side of the family, obviously.
"Right," Jimmy said, giving me an obvious wink. He didn't have time to say anything else, because the next thing I knew, my awesome girlfriend was there.
"Sheeeeeeeeen!" Libby flew through the open door, shoving past Jimmy and wrapping her arms around my stomach tightly. I didn't stumble backwards, as I used to. I had had a major growth spurt in the summer between eighth and ninth grade, and was officially the muscle of my group of friends. Not that I hadn't always been (I mean, compared to Jimmy, Cindy, Libby and Carl, I was the strongest and most willing to fight), I just looked more the part, now, at six feet tall and a hundred and forty-odd pounds.
Jimmy straightened his tie (Judy had made him wear one; I was there for the conversation) and mumbled something about helping Mr. Estevez with the refreshments, leaving us alone.
"You look gorgeous, my Queen," I whispered in her ear, and she laughed.
"'Queen Libby' wants her King to open her present first!" exclaimed my Egyptian beauty, digging around the pocket of her pink, fur-lined trench coat. She found what she was looking for; a little box wrapped in UltraLord-purple with a blue bow, and stuffed it into my hands.
"Oh, shiny..." I was momentarily absorbed in the prettiness of the shiny purple paper, but pulled the bow off and tore the paper as soon as Libby's high heel made contact with my toes and the top of my foot. "Ouch! Ooooh." Libby grinned as I pulled the newest piece of UltraLord paraphernalia out of the box; the figurine-sized UltraLord UltraGloves! I fawned over the gloves— they were perfect for UltraLord figure number 412!— as Libby watched, amused. She still didn't get why I love UltraLord so much, but she tried her best do.
I ran up to my room and put the gloves safely in my UltraSafe safe so I could play with... I mean use... them later. Libby stood in the doorway and waited for me, and I didn't mind. (She knows the combination to the safe, anyway.)
When we went back downstairs, other guests had arrived; Carl (a little taller than when we were children but still as plump, and with acne dotting his chin and nose), Betty Q. (I was surprised to see her back in action so soon after her abortion), Britney (her usual blond pigtails in place, tied in ribbons that matched her cheerleading uniform), Butch (tall and bulky with a buzz-cut, now... why oh why did my dad invite him?), Courtney (wearing the shortest skirt I'd ever seen... not that I was looking, or anything), Nick (eating a lollipop of some kind, as usual), who was with Cindy (annoying as ever, but my she's my girlfriend's best friend, what can I do?), and Emily and Oleander, their mouths permanently fused together (not by some crazy invention of Jimmy's, actually, but of their own free will). Libby grabbed my hand and dragged me over to where Cindy, Courtney, Britney, Nick and Butch were, over in the corner of my living room. It was very weird; I hadn't had many of these people in my house before, and most I was barely friends with, if at all.
Jimmy beckoned me over to where he and Carl were, by the punch bowl, but I shook my head and nodded towards Libby. Carl rolled his eyes and turned to Emily as if to ask her a question, but she was so absorbed in making out with Oleander she didn't even notice him.
"I can't believe Betty's here," scoffed Courtney, "Showing her face after getting knocked up by that dork, Skeet..." Cindy gasped.
"Skeet from McSpanky's? He's the father? No way! He's in college!" she said, her eyes wide as though with shock, but everyone knew she enjoyed the gossip, especially if it involved Betty Quinlan.
"Yes, pimple-boy!" agreed Britney, "I heard he was the only own who would go to the dance with her after the pole-dance fiasco, and she decided to... you know... repay him." The girls giggled, and I sighed. Ever since I started officially dating Libby, I'd been a part of more and more of these kinds of conversations. Libby was one of the 'cool kids,' often hanging out with sophomores, juniors and the occasional senior. Nick and the cheerleaders came as part of the package; and Butch, too, as Nick's muscle.
Gossip didn't interest me (mostly because I was so used to it being about me that I stopped listening), so I occupied myself by looking out the window at a flock of birds crossing the sky. I kept my ears open, though, in case someone asked my opinion of something. No one ever did, but it could happen.
"But he's so old—" I heard Cindy say.
"Dude, shut up," Nick cut her off, and she was silent. This made me turn my head. Nick was my age— he'd failed grade three— and much bigger than little Cindy, but I'd never heard her shut up when someone told her to before. No one else seemed to notice the odd little shift, so I put it in the back of my mind, where I kept everything that didn't relate to UltraLord, Libby, food, and Jimmy's experiments.
"...And then she ends it, just like that! I would have put the thing up for adoption, if it was me, but I wouldn't be me, of course, 'cause I'm a virgin," explained Courtney in her shrill voice, and the other girls in the group rolled their eyes.
"We signed the pledge too, you know," Libby said. There was an abstinence pledge going around school. Almost every ninth-grade girl had signed it, as well as a bunch of junior ones. It's not like I minded; I had my mind set on marriage for me and my Queen (and she claims I don't plan ahead!), waiting a little longer to become physical wasn't a problem until then.
Libby stuck a headphone in her ear, and I sighed with relief. Conversation: over. When Libby blasts the music, it means she's out. And when she's out, I can be, too.
I left the group and walked up the Jimmy and Carl; who were still sipping punch and watching the corner conversation. "What are they saying?" Carl demanded, "Is it about me? Are they insulting llamas?!" He was less distant about the sudden increase in gossip as Jimmy and I were. He was convinced that everyone was talking about him twenty-four/seven. He's a bit narcissistic, but when I pointed it out, Jimmy was the only one who laughed. I think Carl still doesn't know what it means.
"No, Carl, they weren't talking about you or llamas," I sighed, picking up an empty plastic cup and spinning it on my finger, "They were talking about Betty again." Jimmy looked over to where she was sitting by herself on the couch across the room.
"Did you hear she was raped? Heard it was Skeet, too. Funny, we used to hang around him when we were kids... he never seemed like all that bad a guy." I hadn't heard that particular rumour, actually, but I changed the subject to avoid it, anyway. Whether or not that was the truth, my dad would be back from picking up the cake any minute; I didn't want him overhearing anything he might yell at me over.
As if on cue, my dad walked in the door, a couple of stragglers following him in. The new kids in school, Barney and Shannon, or something, were standing behind him. My dad probably saw them at the store and invited them. That was just his personality; he was too nice for his own good, sometimes.
"UltraSon!" he said with a grin, holding a round cake that was purple (duh) and a packet of candles. He went into the dining room, and our guests and I followed him hungrily. Teenagers have big appetites, especially the boys, and we were all ready for cake.
I caught the packet of multicoloured birthday candles when he tossed them to me. I always put my own candles in my cake. It was like tradition. I usually grabbed a handful and stuff them in, not really caring about the position or number (as long as they didn't cover up UltraLord) of the candles.
Last year, my party had been much smaller; just me, Carl, Jimmy, Libby, Cindy and Nick (Libby had insisted that Cindy be there, and Cindy that Nick be invited, too). Nick had pointed out (and laughed at) the fact that I had only put in ten candles. I had been embarrassed, quickly adding three more.
This year, I quickly counted fifteen candles and arranged them around UltraLord's head. Dad offered me the lighter and I eagerly went to grab it— only to have Libby take it lightly from my hands and mumble something about wanting to do the honours. I had that 'excited but slightly insane' look on my face, and she was worried about giving me hot objects, I knew. Sharp ones, too. She always worried about me hurting myself (or others) in my exuberance. I didn't mind. I knew I was a little too enthusiastic to be lighting my own candles.
Libby quickly lit them for me, then handed the lighter back to my dad, who stuck it in his pocket. He was wearing navy corduroy pants. I like corduroy. It's very comfortable. Sometimes it bunches the wrong way if you jump on your desk at school, but as long as you don't do that, they're great. I was aware that my guests were singing 'happy birthday,' but I couldn't help but thinking about how sometimes, if you have black corduroy—
"Sheen, you're supposed to blow 'em out," Butch said laughingly from behind me. I blushed. I'm easily distracted.
"Right." I leaned over and blew, trying hard not to spit on the cake (people don't like that, no matter how funny it seems at the time). I did relatively well, not spitting at all, and only missing one.
"Ha, you've got one girlfriend, Sheen," Carl said brightly. Libby punched him in the shoulder lightly (but hard enough that he winced).
I extinguished the last candle with my fingers, then went about pulling them out. My dad cut the cake, and handed out pieces to everyone. Not everyone invited had shown up— but it was my party, after all, and this was an amazing turn out as it was.
Nick grabbed the spare plate that I had put the candles on and began licking the icing off them. He'd already finished his piece of cake (and most of Cindy's, too, by the look of it). I ate my own piece (the biggest; my dad's the best!) and kind of watched him out of the corner of my eye as I listening to Jimmy telling some story about Quantum-whatever (ok, so I wasn't really listening all that much).
Nick got this really confused look on his face as he stared down at the now cleaned-off candles. He raised an eyebrow, then laughed. "Hey, Sheen, guess what! You did it again," he said in a joking voice, but it sounded more like ridiculing.
"Did what?" I asked, standing up and leaving midway through Jimmy's story. He wouldn't mind; Carl was still trying to follow along.
He chuckled and held up the plate. "Ya put on the wrong number of candles, dude." I blinked a few times, then took the plate from him. I quickly counted.
"No, there are fifteen..." I said, wishing the words would stop the minute I started saying them. I closed my lips quickly, as though trying to hold them in, but they'd already come out. Whoops. I froze. I saw Jimmy looking at me sympathetically, and Carl scratching his head (not knowing what was going on).
"Fifteen?" Nick (who I hate to admit is probably not that much smarter than I am) looked like he was doing mental calculations. "You failed a grade?" The room was silent except for my father's sharp intake of breath and the clock ticking on the mantle.
Dad always tried to bury it. It was only first grade, after all, he'd tell me. Not a big deal at all. I believed him. Didn't think it was important. And I had a good reason to, it's not like it was my fault; I didn't know English real well yet, my mom was trying to teach me, but I never tried outside the house. So I didn't talk at school. So my teacher failed me. But it wasn't a big deal.
"First grade," I mumbled, running a hand through my hair. Libby, Cindy and Carl looked the most shocked out of everyone. They'd known me in second grade, when we moved to Retroville. Really, I should have been in third.
"You know what this means, don't you?" I looked at him. No, I didn't. Was it really that big a deal? Why was everyone so quiet! You could hear a pin drop, seriously.
"Uh..." I racked my brains as hard as I could. Date with Libby tomorrow. Had to help Jimmy with testing something or other on Sunday. Llama joke. New UltraLord comic on Tuesdays. UltraLord on at seven thirty. Corduroy pants are awesome. ...Nothing else. "...No."
"You can't be the fastest runner in the ninth grade anymore. We're gonna have to take back your trophy, dude." Trophy? Oh, right. The gold-painted soup can with the word 'winner' written across it with black Sharpie that was sitting on my dresser with my (least valuable) action figures. Why would they need to take it back? I won it fair and square in the Ninth Grade Olympics (a polite way of saying 'initiation' or 'hazing').
"Why?"
"Because you failed a grade."
"And that makes a difference?"
"Yes. I wasn't allowed to win a trophy because I got sick and missed most of grade three," Nick said matter-of-factly (though he didn't come close to placing high anyway, so why would he care?), "So you getting to compete is like cheating, dude." "No it's not!"
"Is so."
"That doesn't make any sense, N—" Cindy tried to defend me, but Nick silenced her with a glare before she could finish. Another couple of things to store in the corners of my mind. Cindy tried to defend me! We aren't really friends... my best friend has a (painfully obvious) crush on her, and I'm dating her best friend... so it was an anomaly. The other was the Nick was able to get her to shut up again. She usually did everything she could to make her point— it was a little weird.
"Unless you want the entire school knowing how much of a cheater you are, I suggest you hand over the trophy," said Butch, menacingly cracking his knuckles. I clenched my jaw, not moving for a moment. But then I gave up and frowned, turning around, towards the stairs.
"Don't do it, Sheen, he has no right," Jimmy hissed as I started to walk, but I ignored him. I was angry. It's not like I loved the stupid soup can all that much, but I was proud that I had won it, all by myself. My dad had been proud of me when I brought it home and told him that I was the fastest kid in ninth grade. My grandmother had smiled. That's why I was angry. Well, that, and I liked it because it was shiny.
I stomped up the stairs moodily and slammed the door to my room open so hard it made a dent in the UltraLord wallpaper. I was going to regret that later, but I didn't care. I snatched the can off my dresser and glared at it, in all its pretty, shiny glory. I doubted that if I gave it back, my secret wouldn't get out. Betty would tell everyone, to get some of the heat off herself. And, really, you think Cindy, Britney and Courtney would keep it?
I stomped loudly back to the top of the stairs and yelled, "Hey Nick!" He turned to face the stairs with a smug expression on his face. I couldn't help it. I had to wipe that smirk off. "¿Usted piensa cuidado de I? ¡Usted puede guardar su trofeo estúpido, usted asno!" I chucked the can as hard as I could at the jerk, and it hit him between the eyes. There were gasps from everyone; Libby and my dad's were the loudest. My dad's not because of my violent outburst (God knows I have enough of them), but because I had sworn at the guy (albeit in Spanish). I felt bad. Not bad enough to apologise, though, so I turned around and went back into my room, slamming the door so hard the frame shook.
I could hear whispers from downstairs. "What did he say?" "Did he just all you an ass?" "Did he hurt you, Nicky?" and "Woah, spaz much!" being a few of them. I threw myself down on my bed and pulled my pillow over my head. I was going to be in hell tomorrow. But I really didn't care all the much.
The anger faded, and I started regretting having acted so rash. They were going to kill me at school tomorrow; I was going to be a laughing stock!