OmniDuck:
The Spring Formal was Eton's final dance before summer vacation came with its $50, 000 European cruises, all-inclusive Mexican resorts, and trips to Grandma's vineyard in Florence--for the majority of the school's illustrious (read: affluent) student body, in any case. It was a mandatory, school-wide event, and the theme for this year was Under the Sea; not surprisingly, the gym had been decorated accordingly. It was a tradition going back to 1877, when the school was founded, and to say that the events which transpired at this particular Spring Formal would be mulled over, talked about, and most of all laughed at--for the remainder of Eton Hall's history, would be putting it mildly. Was it any wonder the Bash Brothers were behind it all?
***
"Goddamned things are too small," Fulton muttered as he tugged at his waist. "Look! The crotch is barely past my knees!"
"I'm sorry Fulton, but those were the biggest size I could find," Connie said. She looked at him appraisingly, then shook her head. "No, you're right, that won't do at all. Are you sure you can't get them up any further?"
To illustrate the impossibility of this, Fulton did a funny little hopping dance as he yanked at the black and white striped tights that refused to stretch any further up his legs. Understandably, this sent Connie, as well as Portman, who was stretched out on one of the beds, into fits of laughter. When the snorts, chuckles, and finger-pointing 'ha-ha's' began to subside, Portman leapt up from the bed.
"I've got an idea!"
A few minutes later, the tricky tights had been tamed, thanks to Portman's ingenuity; he cut the toes out and stuck Fulton's feet through the holes, using hockey tape to secure the tights to his ankles.
"Perfect, thanks Portman," Connie said, then turned to eye Fulton disapprovingly. "Fulton, please tell me you won't be fiddling with your tights all night; it looks like you're pulling at your underwear." Connie, as head of wardrobe (Julie was in charge of hair and makeup), was as involved in this escapade as anyone, and she didn't want her creation to go out looking like some sort of goon.
"Why do they have to be so fucking tight?" he muttered. "It feels like they're cutting off the bloodflow to my midsection."
"That's because they're uh...control top," Connie coughed the last words into her hand. She knew that the kind thing to do would have been to keep quiet, especially with Portman in the room, but she also knew that the funny thing would be to tell him, and just sit back and watch the fireworks. She wasn't disappointed.
"What?" Fulton spluttered, glaring hard at Connie as Portman rolled around on the bed, holding his stomach and squealing with laughter."
"Look," she said defensively, trying to keep from smiling. "You're just too damn big to be a girl, and it's taken some serious effort on my part to come up with an outfit that doesn't make you look like a hippo in a tutu. Trust me, control top is the way to go."
"He eats butter, you know," Portman said sagely.
"I do not!"
"Oh, what do you know about it, Fatty McButterpants?"
"Eat me," Fulton growled.
"No way, I'm trying to watch my fat intake. Fatty." Portman got off the bed in order to better harass his boyfriend by tickling and poking him in the stomach in between taunts.
"Enough!" Connie cried. "We've got too much to do. Adam! Get in here!"
Moments later Adam, who had been across the hall in Ken and Luis' room, poked his head through the door. "What's up?"
"Adam, Julie and Kenny are late getting back from the drugstore. I need you to start blow-drying Fulton's hair while I get his dress ready."
Adam coughed and looked at the ground. "Uh, what makes you think I know how to--"
Connie laughed and rolled her eyes. "Please, Guy told me all about your Ingrid Bergman routine."
Now it was Adam's turn to splutter, but Connie was already out the door.
"Hey dude," Portman said with a wink. "If it makes you feel any better, Fult n'me already knew about it, too."
"Yeah," Fulton grinned. "And if that doesn't work, at least you'll always have Paris."
"I'm going to kill him," Adam muttered as he sat Fulton down at the desk and started the blowdryer.
The past two weeks had been hard for all the Ducks, but no one got it worse than Adam; though he was under the near constant protection of Fulton and Portman (who, in their defence, had probably saved him from hospitalisation) something about him just seemed to incite bullies and hate- mongers. And so it was Adam's locker upon which "Fagot" (yes, that's right, faggot with one 'g') had been scrawled in pink spray paint, his feet that always managed to get tangled in someone else's whenever he crossed the cafeteria, his delicate, determined features that made him the target of almost every kid in the school.
Though none of his teammates had said anything to him (except Charlie, of course), they were all really impressed with the way Adam had handled the torrent of insults and abuse that had been heaped upon him since news of his sexuality hit Eton's high voltage gossip wire. He ignored everything and everyone so completely, and with so little apparent effort that one might assume he had been doing it his entire life. He never broke down crying, or flipped out on some kid, or played sick to avoid going to class. He never acknowledged his tormentors, never looked at them when they spoke to him. He never said a word when someone dumped potato salad in his backpack, or when his books disappeared during study hall, replaced with a lurid cartoon, the details of which need not be divulged here.
He had been careful to shield as many of these incidents as he could from the Bash Brothers; they had worked so hard to keep him safe, and it would only make them feel badly. And so he said nothing, focussing instead on getting heat to the bottom layers of Fulton's thick black hair and hoping like hell that things didn't get out of hand at the dance.
Fulton's decision to attend the Eton Hall spring formal dressed as a girl did not come to him lightly, nor was it born from an exhibitionistic form of gay pride. Rather it was born from the knowledge that it was the only option, short of running away, going to the police, or giving up completely. As soon as the idea came to him, Fulton knew it was something he had to do, and when he explained it to the Ducks, they knew it too.
***
"As you all know, they will not be returning next year, as they have been given a tremendous opportunity by the Junior Hockey Commission. It is one they richly deserve, and I think everyone will agree with me that they are among the most colourful, passionate students we have ever had the pleasure of having here at Eton Hall. And so, without further ado, I am proud to present the Ducks with the annual Franklin Petrovsky award for outstanding athletic achievement. Will you all join me in congratulating them on their record-breaking season, and to wish them all the best in their future endeavours."
Here we go, thought Charlie nervously as he walked up on stage. He shook Dean Buckley's hand, accepted his plaque and smiled for the cameras, all the while glancing over his shoulder as the rest of the team filed up on stage behind him. Julie, Kenny, Goldberg, Dwayne...it wouldn't be long now.
The Spring Formal, like all events at Eton, began with a speech from the Dean, as well as any special announcements or presentations to be made, before the dance begun. Charlie spotted Bombay and Orien seated in the front row, smiling at him. He grinned back feebly. Relax Charlie, he told himself. Just remember, you're not coming back next year. Classes are over; there isn't anything they can do that they haven't done already. Yeah, right.
His thoughts were interrupted when a hushed silence fell over the crowd before the room suddenly exploded in whispers, and Charlie knew at once who had stepped up on stage.
Fulton had stopped in front of Dean Buckley, who didn't give him his plaque. "Son, this isn't funny," he whispered urgently, casting nervous glances at the attendees, many of whom were on their feet, staring and pointing like awe-struck children. "What on Earth are you trying to do?"
"He's not doing anything, he's here to get an award, so just give him his plaque." Russ said, stepping in front of the Dean and crossing his arms.
The Dean thrust the plaque into Fulton's hands. "Fine, here, just get off the stage," he whispered imploringly.
And so he did, quietly leaving the stage and going over to join the rest of the Ducks, who had gathered against the bleachers. As he walked toward them, Portman barely recognised his boyfriend. Fulton was wearing a metallic blue dress with bell sleeves and a skirt that ended just above the knee. His hair had been streaked with a deep blue dye and done up in pigtails tied with ribbons of a matching shade. The black and white striped tights hid his hairy legs, and somehow lent him an elfish air. On his back was a pair of angel wings made of white feathers and on his feet was the same pair of dirty, holey Converse hightops he'd had for years--not many women's shoes were available in size twelve. His eyes were lined in blue, and his body was covered with a layer of glitter than made his cheeks sparkle under the bright fluorescent lights of the gymnasium. An incongruous assemblage, perhaps, but also striking and somehow otherworldly.
Just looking at him took Portman's breath away. He put his hand in Fulton's and gazed at him lovingly. "You're beautiful."
He was.
***
Perhaps you are asking yourselves: why? Why did he do it? What good could it possibly accomplish? There are many answers to this question, and if you weren't able to come up with a single one, then there's not much that can be done for you. In doing what he did, Fulton drew all the attention away from Adam and Charlie, leaving them free to dance together as they pleased. Without him, they would not have even been able to attend the formal, they would have been so mercilessly harassed.
There is something to be said for shock value: if sufficiently extreme, it can shut people up better than anything, and that was exactly what had been done tonight; there hadn't been a single catcall or insult. This was also probably partially due to all the teachers present. Though they were wandering around with slightly dazed expressions, they kept a close watch on everybody. The Ducks sat together at their isolated corner tables, talking amongst themselves, and whenever any of them were on the dance floor, the other students gave them a wide berth. It was rather funny, seeing the kids shuffle about to stay outside the eight-foot radius that magically surrounded each of the Ducks, as if they were victims of leprosy, or syphilis, or perhaps the bubonic plague.
Everyone talked in low, hushed tones; the gym was perpetually buzzing from the sum of hundreds of whispered voices. A thundercloud of emotions seemed to hover above the heads of the Eton Hall students and staff. All of its contents, tension, shock, outrage, disgust, irony and many others were so heavy in the air that they could almost be smelt. Upon entrance to the gymnasium, the effects were so overwhelming that one had the impression of walking in on a hostage situation, or on two opposing armies on the verge of battle, both lying in wait for the other to make the first move. That this move would come was not in question; it was only a matter of time before something set off a spark.
As for the Ducks, they had been expecting all this and more, and so they were the only ones at the dance who were even halfway enjoying themselves. Adam and Charlie had been dancing all night, Julie and Ken were making out at one of the tables, and though it was getting rather steamy (there was some cake icing involved), the chaperones made no move to stop them. Connie and Guy had disappeared fifteen minutes ago, and the rest of the Ducks were laying bets on where they had run off to (the smart money was on behind the bleachers). It appeared as if an individual wearing clothes meant for a member of the opposite sex to a school dance was enough to throw all rules out the window, and replace them with anarchy, of which the Ducks were happy to exploit. They were chatting away, excited musings about their upcoming hockey season and snide remarks about the other students being occasionally interspersed with Averman getting down on his knees and asking Fulton for a dance, even though he knew that it would only result in Russ kicking him in the shins again.
Adam and Charlie left the dance floor and came over to join the others. "How's it going, guys?" Charlie asked as he plopped down in a chair and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. They'd been dancing for more than two hours straight, and Charlie was exhausted, but to his consternation Adam still looked like he could go another few dozen rounds. He tried to control his heavy breathing, and was glad he'd just made the switch to a stronger antiperspirant.
"Oh, just fine," Averman said, and the others rolled their eyes. They knew what was coming. "That is," he continued, "if you consider fine to include being utterly shunned by our entire peer group, probably setting the stage for ostracisation that will follow us for the rest of our miserable lives."
"Oh, come on now Averman, be fair," said Portman, wagging his finger at his friend. "You were shunned and ostracised long before half the team fell prey to deviant lifestyles."
Averman continued as if Portman hadn't spoken. "I mean, you don't find it just a little ironic that Adam and Charlie can dance the night away, while the rest of us are getting hip-checked by the entire football team if we even try to approach a girl?"
Fulton smiled to himself as Portman shot out another retort, and the banter continued. It was all very good-natured, however; everyone was used to Averman's complaints, and nobody took them seriously, including Averman himself. In the days since Orien spilled the beans, the friendships and bonds that existed between each of the Ducks were beginning to show themselves more strongly than ever; none of the straight Ducks blamed any of the gay ones for what was going on, choosing instead to support and stand up for them. All previous traces of unease were gone from the team as well. This was evident to Fulton in Averman's complaints and Goldberg's jokes, and in the way Russ never even seemed to think about it at all. Luis' new-found political-correctness and Dwayne's gentle curiosity (he bragged on the phone to his parents that he knew no less than FOUR homosexuals, and they were so thrilled by this, and eager to meet them, that Dwayne finally had to ask Portman to talk to them so they'd leave him alone) were also indicators.
As the other Ducks continued their chatter, Fulton watched the rest of the school. He could see the tension building up just beneath the surface, like thousands of gallons of magma flowing under a thin layer of volcanic ash; any seismic movements and the whole thing would blow. What would happen when it did was anyone's guess, but Fulton had a pretty good one. He knew that the best way to ensure the safety and comfort of his friends was to trigger the explosion on purpose, and, in that way, he hoped to retain a measure of control over the outcome.
He leaned over to Portman and Charlie, who were sitting beside him. "It's going to go any minute. We have to do something."
"What do you mean?" Charlie asked, but Portman was already nodding.
"Look around you, spazway. No one's smiling, no one's dancing, they're all just staring at us. The Dean is grinding his teeth so hard I can hear it from here, and that history teacher's pulling out handfuls of her own hair." He gestured to a short Spanish woman with a mass of thick brown hair. She kept running her fingers through it nervously, and sure enough, you could see the hairs clinging to her fingers, as well as a small pile that was gathering around her feet. "These people are all set to blow."
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all," Charlie said. "No offence Fulton, because Adam and I have had such a great time tonight, and no way we could have come without you, but--"
"Yeah," Adam, who had been listening, broke in. "We really owe you, Fult. I just can't believe you had the guts to do something like this."
Fulton shrugged. "I don't give a shit what these losers think of me, I just hope I don't have to sit through the same little chat Bombay had with you and Charlie. I'd just die."
Charlie grinned. "You know, I thought it was going to be torture, but it wasn't so bad. He didn't get too angry, or emotional, or try to bring up safe sex or AIDS talk. Besides, I think he was a little drunk."
"Speaking of which," said Russ jerking his head towards the cluster of teachers who were gathered by the entrance. "You guys notice how two or three of them keep ducking out, then coming back? I know they've got a minibar tucked away someplace. Check out Mr. Benson."
Mr. Benson, aka the bane of Fulton Reed's high school existence, was standing near the other teachers, but slightly off to the side. His face was bright red and he was swaying on his feet, his eyes closed, his lips moving wordlessly.
Just then, the microphone on the stage let out an ear-splitting feedback wail that quickly turned everyone's attention toward the front. Dean Buckley stood before them, hunched over the microphone and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.
"It is time for the final dance of the evening, so if everybody would partner up and get out onto the floor..." No one made a move to do so, and the Dean sighed resignedly. "Once the dance is over, if you would kindly return to your dorms for the night, we will not tolerate any shenanigans." With that, he turned the microphone over to the band's lead singer.
The band was comprised of a quartet of bespectacled, sport-coat wearing, geek-chic Weezer wannabees, but they were had a pretty good repertoire of cover songs. "All right, last number of the night, so we wanna see everyone on the floor! Come on you guys! Any requests?" the lead singer called out. Once again, minimal response all around except in the corner the Ducks were seated in, where there was a flurry of activity.
Julie and Kenny had finally come up for air and were back with the others, while Charlie scurried off to round up Connie and Guy and Portman approached the stage to talk to the band. When everyone was present, they huddled up in a circle just as the first chords began to chime out.
"Alright guys, who are we?" Charlie asked.
"Ducks!"
"And what do Ducks do?"
"Fly together!"
They all put their hands in the middle of the circle and began to quack. "Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack!"
As soon as they were done, Charlie grabbed Adam by the wrist and pulled him out onto the floor. They were quickly joined by Fulton and Portman, who made a exception to their iron-clad "no dancing" rule for this special occasion. The song Portman had requested was the End by the Doors, and as the keyboard's jangled discordant melodies echoed across the empty floor, Julie, Kenny, Connie and Guy broke from the circle, and began to dance. Only it was Julie, not Guy, who held Connie in her arms. Dwayne and Russ were the next ones out, Russ giving Dwayne one of his famous shin-kicks when Dwayne stepped on his toes.
"This is some mighty fucked-up shit," Averman said to Goldberg, observing the scene before him.
"Shut up and dance," said Goldberg, hauling him out onto the floor.
And so the Ducks danced. They danced as if they didn't feel the stares, or hear the whispers, or understand the consequences of what they were doing. They danced as if tomorrow would never come.
What happened next came as a surprise to everyone, even Fulton. A couple of freshman girls got up and started to dance as well, one of them laying her head on the other's shoulder as they rocked slowly back and forth. A minute or so later, they were joined by a two senior guys that the Ducks recognised as Lucas Gardener and Bradley Walsh, the captain and co-captain of the Varsity wrestling team. After that, three more female couples and a pair of chess club boys joined them. An increasingly angry buzz began to circulate through the crowds of students and teachers, but no one on the dance floor seemed to notice. Same-sex couples kept trickling onto the floor, though obviously not all of them were not romantically involved. The scene was extremely heartening to Gordon Bombay and Ted Orien, who were watching everything from the safety of the punch bowl. Bombay had to admit that it was the last thing he expected, to see so many students accepting or supporting his team. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe the world was ready to deal with gay hockey players.
"It's so fucking beautiful," Orien sniffed, his eyes red and watery from a few too many trips to the minibar.
"You're right, let's get out there." So Bombay and Orien joined the others, though as they danced they kept a respectable distance from each other, as Orien feared for his "tenure."
"This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end. It hurts to set you free, but you'll never follow me. The end of laughter and soft lies, the end of nights we tried to die. This is the end..."
Whether it was the sight of two male teachers dancing together, or all the spiked punch the kids had been drinking, or the knowledge that the dance was over and all those freaks were just going to get away with what they did if nothing happened, but something snapped, and it was just as the song was ending, that all hell broke loose.
Nobody saw who threw the first punch. One moment everyone was dancing, and the next half of them had been knocked to the floor by enraged partygoers. In the span of less than 30 seconds, a rumble had erupted, with over 100 Eton students hitting, kicking, scratching and biting each other as hard as they could. And how were our noble Ducks doing, you ask?
Russ and Guy were kicking ass, of course, and Julie was more than holding her own with a particularly vicious member of the swim team. Dwayne and Luis had tried to make peace with their attackers at first, but after getting smashed in the face a few times, they decided that violence sometimes WAS the answer, and were now right in the middle of it like everyone else. Connie leapt on the back of the Varsity goalie (who had replaced Scooter when he graduated) and started to choke him, while Ken used this distraction to dart in and kick him in the balls as hard as he could. Charlie was duking it out with a boy of similar size, and though Adam did alright for himself, the Bashes had to step in occasionally to relieve him of his aggressors. Fulton and Portman? Suffice to say that together they did the work of many; kids were flying left and right as they hurled bigot after bigot into the ionosphere.
Bombay and Orien were the only adults trying to separate the warring throngs of children, and they were nowhere near enough. Just as Bombay had managed to strong-arm one girl off of another, he was hit hard in the ear by an errant blow from none other than Dean Portman, knocking him to the ground and loosening his grip on the girl, who wriggled out of his grasp and leapt back into the fray.
"This is insane!" cried Orien, as he helped Guy, who had been floored by the boy he was fighting, to his feet. "You have to stop!"
Guy shook his head. "Don't you get it? This had to happen, this or something like it. Everyone here is so repressed, this is probably the only time most of them have had to just let their emotions go. Now if you'll excuse me..."
He tried to return to the battle, but Orien held tight to his shirt. "No way Guy, I'm not going to let you..."
"Hey, Ted!" Orien turned at the sound of his name, only to greet the flying fist of Bernard Benson, history teacher and full-time asshole, with his face. "Take that, you arrogant bastard!" he shouted gleefully.
"Jesus Christ!" cried Bombay, as Guy leapt back into action and Orien grabbed Benson by the hair and began slamming his head repeatedly into the gym floor. "What do you think you're doing, Ted?"
"What about your role in all of this, Gordon?" It was John McNally, the school's guidance councillor, who was always at work trying to get the Ducks' scholarships revoked, claiming that the team was composed mainly of "delinquents and sociopaths."
"If it weren't for your providing such a bad example for these kids, we wouldn't be in this situation. You ought to be thrown in prison for corrupting young minds like you have. I plan to pursue this legally, believe me. You are to blame here, Gordon, and I am going to be sure everyone knows it."
Gordon looked at McNally, then over his shoulder at the battle that was still going strong, then back to McNally. "Fuck it," he muttered, and coldcocked the cheeky bastard with a vicious roundhouse.
***
So what happened after it was all over? How did it end? Why, happily, of course, what did you expect? The Ducks and their allies came out on top, just as everyone knew they would, though they acquired their fair share of injuries in the process, and the school nurse had to call in for an aid to help with all the stitching and bandaging. Scores of students and over a dozen teachers had taken part in the largest fracas in the history of the school, but were the police called? Of course not! The Dean and his board of alumni swept it all under the table, once security camera tapes made it clear that it was their sprightly offspring who had attacked the Ducks, and not the other way around.
The rest of the school year passed without further incident and though teachers frowned and students whispered, Adam and Charlie were free to walk hand in hand down the hall without fear of attack. Fulton and Portman were free to do the same if they wished, but holding hands had never been their thing.
As a rather interesting aside, the two girls who were the first non-Ducks to join the dance at the end of the night officially came out as well. Their names were Lynn Mykerson and Dakota White. They were both very involved in Eton's art program; Dakota took photographs, and Lynn did mixed media. In the years to come, they fought Eton's strident rules and policies with letter campaigns, petitions and protests, and while it only resulted in being expelled their senior year, they were both accepted to the prestigious Emily Carr art school on Granville Island in B.C. When Dakota published her first book of photographs to great praise at the age of19, she dedicated it as follows:
To Fulton Reed and the rest of the mighty Ducks: for paving the way.
***
It was shortly after three in the morning, and Fulton and Portman were snuggled on the couch in the attic. Portman had eight stitches above his eyebrow and three in his lip, while Fulton had five along his hairline, and another six on his hand, where he'd busted his knuckles open on some kid's head. The school had assigned them separate rooms when they found out they were together, so they'd spent most nights since then up here.
Portman reached out his hand for the pipe proffered by Fulton, as he watched the sweet-smelling smoke billow and furl above his head. How had it happened? How could everything go so wrong, and yet turn out so right? "You knew what would happen all along, didn't you? You had it planned from the start."
Fulton just smiled. Yes, he had suspected that a fight would break out at the dance, and he had seen it as the perfect opportunity to let it all come out. But it was more than just that. He had wanted to bring the Ducks together, to get them all fighting on the same side, like they used to do. You see, Fulton had realised something that hadn't occurred to any of the others; this was it. After this year, they were leaving on a jet plane to go see the world, and after that, everything would be different. Some of them would go off to play in the juniors, some in the minors, the rest would probably go to some other prep school on hockey scholarships. This was the last school dance they'd have together as a team, and going out the way they had was an experience none of them would ever forget. It was pure Duck magic.
Fulton took a deep hit and breathed out slowly. Crazy. His life was crazy. If anyone had told him when he was younger that this was where he was going to end up at age sixteen, he never would have believed them. He looked over at the boy sitting beside him and smiled. "Love ya," he said, planting a kiss on Portman's lips.
"Ditto," said Portman, returning the favour with a kiss of his own, and snuggling in even closer.
And that was how the Ducks found them the next morning when they came in to wake them up for a little scrimmage action; two enormous enforcers with hearts to match, wrapped in each others arms. True love was be hard to come by these days, and everyone agreed that it couldn't have happened to a better pair of guys than the Bash Brothers.
THE END (or is it?)
The Spring Formal was Eton's final dance before summer vacation came with its $50, 000 European cruises, all-inclusive Mexican resorts, and trips to Grandma's vineyard in Florence--for the majority of the school's illustrious (read: affluent) student body, in any case. It was a mandatory, school-wide event, and the theme for this year was Under the Sea; not surprisingly, the gym had been decorated accordingly. It was a tradition going back to 1877, when the school was founded, and to say that the events which transpired at this particular Spring Formal would be mulled over, talked about, and most of all laughed at--for the remainder of Eton Hall's history, would be putting it mildly. Was it any wonder the Bash Brothers were behind it all?
***
"Goddamned things are too small," Fulton muttered as he tugged at his waist. "Look! The crotch is barely past my knees!"
"I'm sorry Fulton, but those were the biggest size I could find," Connie said. She looked at him appraisingly, then shook her head. "No, you're right, that won't do at all. Are you sure you can't get them up any further?"
To illustrate the impossibility of this, Fulton did a funny little hopping dance as he yanked at the black and white striped tights that refused to stretch any further up his legs. Understandably, this sent Connie, as well as Portman, who was stretched out on one of the beds, into fits of laughter. When the snorts, chuckles, and finger-pointing 'ha-ha's' began to subside, Portman leapt up from the bed.
"I've got an idea!"
A few minutes later, the tricky tights had been tamed, thanks to Portman's ingenuity; he cut the toes out and stuck Fulton's feet through the holes, using hockey tape to secure the tights to his ankles.
"Perfect, thanks Portman," Connie said, then turned to eye Fulton disapprovingly. "Fulton, please tell me you won't be fiddling with your tights all night; it looks like you're pulling at your underwear." Connie, as head of wardrobe (Julie was in charge of hair and makeup), was as involved in this escapade as anyone, and she didn't want her creation to go out looking like some sort of goon.
"Why do they have to be so fucking tight?" he muttered. "It feels like they're cutting off the bloodflow to my midsection."
"That's because they're uh...control top," Connie coughed the last words into her hand. She knew that the kind thing to do would have been to keep quiet, especially with Portman in the room, but she also knew that the funny thing would be to tell him, and just sit back and watch the fireworks. She wasn't disappointed.
"What?" Fulton spluttered, glaring hard at Connie as Portman rolled around on the bed, holding his stomach and squealing with laughter."
"Look," she said defensively, trying to keep from smiling. "You're just too damn big to be a girl, and it's taken some serious effort on my part to come up with an outfit that doesn't make you look like a hippo in a tutu. Trust me, control top is the way to go."
"He eats butter, you know," Portman said sagely.
"I do not!"
"Oh, what do you know about it, Fatty McButterpants?"
"Eat me," Fulton growled.
"No way, I'm trying to watch my fat intake. Fatty." Portman got off the bed in order to better harass his boyfriend by tickling and poking him in the stomach in between taunts.
"Enough!" Connie cried. "We've got too much to do. Adam! Get in here!"
Moments later Adam, who had been across the hall in Ken and Luis' room, poked his head through the door. "What's up?"
"Adam, Julie and Kenny are late getting back from the drugstore. I need you to start blow-drying Fulton's hair while I get his dress ready."
Adam coughed and looked at the ground. "Uh, what makes you think I know how to--"
Connie laughed and rolled her eyes. "Please, Guy told me all about your Ingrid Bergman routine."
Now it was Adam's turn to splutter, but Connie was already out the door.
"Hey dude," Portman said with a wink. "If it makes you feel any better, Fult n'me already knew about it, too."
"Yeah," Fulton grinned. "And if that doesn't work, at least you'll always have Paris."
"I'm going to kill him," Adam muttered as he sat Fulton down at the desk and started the blowdryer.
The past two weeks had been hard for all the Ducks, but no one got it worse than Adam; though he was under the near constant protection of Fulton and Portman (who, in their defence, had probably saved him from hospitalisation) something about him just seemed to incite bullies and hate- mongers. And so it was Adam's locker upon which "Fagot" (yes, that's right, faggot with one 'g') had been scrawled in pink spray paint, his feet that always managed to get tangled in someone else's whenever he crossed the cafeteria, his delicate, determined features that made him the target of almost every kid in the school.
Though none of his teammates had said anything to him (except Charlie, of course), they were all really impressed with the way Adam had handled the torrent of insults and abuse that had been heaped upon him since news of his sexuality hit Eton's high voltage gossip wire. He ignored everything and everyone so completely, and with so little apparent effort that one might assume he had been doing it his entire life. He never broke down crying, or flipped out on some kid, or played sick to avoid going to class. He never acknowledged his tormentors, never looked at them when they spoke to him. He never said a word when someone dumped potato salad in his backpack, or when his books disappeared during study hall, replaced with a lurid cartoon, the details of which need not be divulged here.
He had been careful to shield as many of these incidents as he could from the Bash Brothers; they had worked so hard to keep him safe, and it would only make them feel badly. And so he said nothing, focussing instead on getting heat to the bottom layers of Fulton's thick black hair and hoping like hell that things didn't get out of hand at the dance.
Fulton's decision to attend the Eton Hall spring formal dressed as a girl did not come to him lightly, nor was it born from an exhibitionistic form of gay pride. Rather it was born from the knowledge that it was the only option, short of running away, going to the police, or giving up completely. As soon as the idea came to him, Fulton knew it was something he had to do, and when he explained it to the Ducks, they knew it too.
***
"As you all know, they will not be returning next year, as they have been given a tremendous opportunity by the Junior Hockey Commission. It is one they richly deserve, and I think everyone will agree with me that they are among the most colourful, passionate students we have ever had the pleasure of having here at Eton Hall. And so, without further ado, I am proud to present the Ducks with the annual Franklin Petrovsky award for outstanding athletic achievement. Will you all join me in congratulating them on their record-breaking season, and to wish them all the best in their future endeavours."
Here we go, thought Charlie nervously as he walked up on stage. He shook Dean Buckley's hand, accepted his plaque and smiled for the cameras, all the while glancing over his shoulder as the rest of the team filed up on stage behind him. Julie, Kenny, Goldberg, Dwayne...it wouldn't be long now.
The Spring Formal, like all events at Eton, began with a speech from the Dean, as well as any special announcements or presentations to be made, before the dance begun. Charlie spotted Bombay and Orien seated in the front row, smiling at him. He grinned back feebly. Relax Charlie, he told himself. Just remember, you're not coming back next year. Classes are over; there isn't anything they can do that they haven't done already. Yeah, right.
His thoughts were interrupted when a hushed silence fell over the crowd before the room suddenly exploded in whispers, and Charlie knew at once who had stepped up on stage.
Fulton had stopped in front of Dean Buckley, who didn't give him his plaque. "Son, this isn't funny," he whispered urgently, casting nervous glances at the attendees, many of whom were on their feet, staring and pointing like awe-struck children. "What on Earth are you trying to do?"
"He's not doing anything, he's here to get an award, so just give him his plaque." Russ said, stepping in front of the Dean and crossing his arms.
The Dean thrust the plaque into Fulton's hands. "Fine, here, just get off the stage," he whispered imploringly.
And so he did, quietly leaving the stage and going over to join the rest of the Ducks, who had gathered against the bleachers. As he walked toward them, Portman barely recognised his boyfriend. Fulton was wearing a metallic blue dress with bell sleeves and a skirt that ended just above the knee. His hair had been streaked with a deep blue dye and done up in pigtails tied with ribbons of a matching shade. The black and white striped tights hid his hairy legs, and somehow lent him an elfish air. On his back was a pair of angel wings made of white feathers and on his feet was the same pair of dirty, holey Converse hightops he'd had for years--not many women's shoes were available in size twelve. His eyes were lined in blue, and his body was covered with a layer of glitter than made his cheeks sparkle under the bright fluorescent lights of the gymnasium. An incongruous assemblage, perhaps, but also striking and somehow otherworldly.
Just looking at him took Portman's breath away. He put his hand in Fulton's and gazed at him lovingly. "You're beautiful."
He was.
***
Perhaps you are asking yourselves: why? Why did he do it? What good could it possibly accomplish? There are many answers to this question, and if you weren't able to come up with a single one, then there's not much that can be done for you. In doing what he did, Fulton drew all the attention away from Adam and Charlie, leaving them free to dance together as they pleased. Without him, they would not have even been able to attend the formal, they would have been so mercilessly harassed.
There is something to be said for shock value: if sufficiently extreme, it can shut people up better than anything, and that was exactly what had been done tonight; there hadn't been a single catcall or insult. This was also probably partially due to all the teachers present. Though they were wandering around with slightly dazed expressions, they kept a close watch on everybody. The Ducks sat together at their isolated corner tables, talking amongst themselves, and whenever any of them were on the dance floor, the other students gave them a wide berth. It was rather funny, seeing the kids shuffle about to stay outside the eight-foot radius that magically surrounded each of the Ducks, as if they were victims of leprosy, or syphilis, or perhaps the bubonic plague.
Everyone talked in low, hushed tones; the gym was perpetually buzzing from the sum of hundreds of whispered voices. A thundercloud of emotions seemed to hover above the heads of the Eton Hall students and staff. All of its contents, tension, shock, outrage, disgust, irony and many others were so heavy in the air that they could almost be smelt. Upon entrance to the gymnasium, the effects were so overwhelming that one had the impression of walking in on a hostage situation, or on two opposing armies on the verge of battle, both lying in wait for the other to make the first move. That this move would come was not in question; it was only a matter of time before something set off a spark.
As for the Ducks, they had been expecting all this and more, and so they were the only ones at the dance who were even halfway enjoying themselves. Adam and Charlie had been dancing all night, Julie and Ken were making out at one of the tables, and though it was getting rather steamy (there was some cake icing involved), the chaperones made no move to stop them. Connie and Guy had disappeared fifteen minutes ago, and the rest of the Ducks were laying bets on where they had run off to (the smart money was on behind the bleachers). It appeared as if an individual wearing clothes meant for a member of the opposite sex to a school dance was enough to throw all rules out the window, and replace them with anarchy, of which the Ducks were happy to exploit. They were chatting away, excited musings about their upcoming hockey season and snide remarks about the other students being occasionally interspersed with Averman getting down on his knees and asking Fulton for a dance, even though he knew that it would only result in Russ kicking him in the shins again.
Adam and Charlie left the dance floor and came over to join the others. "How's it going, guys?" Charlie asked as he plopped down in a chair and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. They'd been dancing for more than two hours straight, and Charlie was exhausted, but to his consternation Adam still looked like he could go another few dozen rounds. He tried to control his heavy breathing, and was glad he'd just made the switch to a stronger antiperspirant.
"Oh, just fine," Averman said, and the others rolled their eyes. They knew what was coming. "That is," he continued, "if you consider fine to include being utterly shunned by our entire peer group, probably setting the stage for ostracisation that will follow us for the rest of our miserable lives."
"Oh, come on now Averman, be fair," said Portman, wagging his finger at his friend. "You were shunned and ostracised long before half the team fell prey to deviant lifestyles."
Averman continued as if Portman hadn't spoken. "I mean, you don't find it just a little ironic that Adam and Charlie can dance the night away, while the rest of us are getting hip-checked by the entire football team if we even try to approach a girl?"
Fulton smiled to himself as Portman shot out another retort, and the banter continued. It was all very good-natured, however; everyone was used to Averman's complaints, and nobody took them seriously, including Averman himself. In the days since Orien spilled the beans, the friendships and bonds that existed between each of the Ducks were beginning to show themselves more strongly than ever; none of the straight Ducks blamed any of the gay ones for what was going on, choosing instead to support and stand up for them. All previous traces of unease were gone from the team as well. This was evident to Fulton in Averman's complaints and Goldberg's jokes, and in the way Russ never even seemed to think about it at all. Luis' new-found political-correctness and Dwayne's gentle curiosity (he bragged on the phone to his parents that he knew no less than FOUR homosexuals, and they were so thrilled by this, and eager to meet them, that Dwayne finally had to ask Portman to talk to them so they'd leave him alone) were also indicators.
As the other Ducks continued their chatter, Fulton watched the rest of the school. He could see the tension building up just beneath the surface, like thousands of gallons of magma flowing under a thin layer of volcanic ash; any seismic movements and the whole thing would blow. What would happen when it did was anyone's guess, but Fulton had a pretty good one. He knew that the best way to ensure the safety and comfort of his friends was to trigger the explosion on purpose, and, in that way, he hoped to retain a measure of control over the outcome.
He leaned over to Portman and Charlie, who were sitting beside him. "It's going to go any minute. We have to do something."
"What do you mean?" Charlie asked, but Portman was already nodding.
"Look around you, spazway. No one's smiling, no one's dancing, they're all just staring at us. The Dean is grinding his teeth so hard I can hear it from here, and that history teacher's pulling out handfuls of her own hair." He gestured to a short Spanish woman with a mass of thick brown hair. She kept running her fingers through it nervously, and sure enough, you could see the hairs clinging to her fingers, as well as a small pile that was gathering around her feet. "These people are all set to blow."
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all," Charlie said. "No offence Fulton, because Adam and I have had such a great time tonight, and no way we could have come without you, but--"
"Yeah," Adam, who had been listening, broke in. "We really owe you, Fult. I just can't believe you had the guts to do something like this."
Fulton shrugged. "I don't give a shit what these losers think of me, I just hope I don't have to sit through the same little chat Bombay had with you and Charlie. I'd just die."
Charlie grinned. "You know, I thought it was going to be torture, but it wasn't so bad. He didn't get too angry, or emotional, or try to bring up safe sex or AIDS talk. Besides, I think he was a little drunk."
"Speaking of which," said Russ jerking his head towards the cluster of teachers who were gathered by the entrance. "You guys notice how two or three of them keep ducking out, then coming back? I know they've got a minibar tucked away someplace. Check out Mr. Benson."
Mr. Benson, aka the bane of Fulton Reed's high school existence, was standing near the other teachers, but slightly off to the side. His face was bright red and he was swaying on his feet, his eyes closed, his lips moving wordlessly.
Just then, the microphone on the stage let out an ear-splitting feedback wail that quickly turned everyone's attention toward the front. Dean Buckley stood before them, hunched over the microphone and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.
"It is time for the final dance of the evening, so if everybody would partner up and get out onto the floor..." No one made a move to do so, and the Dean sighed resignedly. "Once the dance is over, if you would kindly return to your dorms for the night, we will not tolerate any shenanigans." With that, he turned the microphone over to the band's lead singer.
The band was comprised of a quartet of bespectacled, sport-coat wearing, geek-chic Weezer wannabees, but they were had a pretty good repertoire of cover songs. "All right, last number of the night, so we wanna see everyone on the floor! Come on you guys! Any requests?" the lead singer called out. Once again, minimal response all around except in the corner the Ducks were seated in, where there was a flurry of activity.
Julie and Kenny had finally come up for air and were back with the others, while Charlie scurried off to round up Connie and Guy and Portman approached the stage to talk to the band. When everyone was present, they huddled up in a circle just as the first chords began to chime out.
"Alright guys, who are we?" Charlie asked.
"Ducks!"
"And what do Ducks do?"
"Fly together!"
They all put their hands in the middle of the circle and began to quack. "Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack!"
As soon as they were done, Charlie grabbed Adam by the wrist and pulled him out onto the floor. They were quickly joined by Fulton and Portman, who made a exception to their iron-clad "no dancing" rule for this special occasion. The song Portman had requested was the End by the Doors, and as the keyboard's jangled discordant melodies echoed across the empty floor, Julie, Kenny, Connie and Guy broke from the circle, and began to dance. Only it was Julie, not Guy, who held Connie in her arms. Dwayne and Russ were the next ones out, Russ giving Dwayne one of his famous shin-kicks when Dwayne stepped on his toes.
"This is some mighty fucked-up shit," Averman said to Goldberg, observing the scene before him.
"Shut up and dance," said Goldberg, hauling him out onto the floor.
And so the Ducks danced. They danced as if they didn't feel the stares, or hear the whispers, or understand the consequences of what they were doing. They danced as if tomorrow would never come.
What happened next came as a surprise to everyone, even Fulton. A couple of freshman girls got up and started to dance as well, one of them laying her head on the other's shoulder as they rocked slowly back and forth. A minute or so later, they were joined by a two senior guys that the Ducks recognised as Lucas Gardener and Bradley Walsh, the captain and co-captain of the Varsity wrestling team. After that, three more female couples and a pair of chess club boys joined them. An increasingly angry buzz began to circulate through the crowds of students and teachers, but no one on the dance floor seemed to notice. Same-sex couples kept trickling onto the floor, though obviously not all of them were not romantically involved. The scene was extremely heartening to Gordon Bombay and Ted Orien, who were watching everything from the safety of the punch bowl. Bombay had to admit that it was the last thing he expected, to see so many students accepting or supporting his team. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe the world was ready to deal with gay hockey players.
"It's so fucking beautiful," Orien sniffed, his eyes red and watery from a few too many trips to the minibar.
"You're right, let's get out there." So Bombay and Orien joined the others, though as they danced they kept a respectable distance from each other, as Orien feared for his "tenure."
"This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end. It hurts to set you free, but you'll never follow me. The end of laughter and soft lies, the end of nights we tried to die. This is the end..."
Whether it was the sight of two male teachers dancing together, or all the spiked punch the kids had been drinking, or the knowledge that the dance was over and all those freaks were just going to get away with what they did if nothing happened, but something snapped, and it was just as the song was ending, that all hell broke loose.
Nobody saw who threw the first punch. One moment everyone was dancing, and the next half of them had been knocked to the floor by enraged partygoers. In the span of less than 30 seconds, a rumble had erupted, with over 100 Eton students hitting, kicking, scratching and biting each other as hard as they could. And how were our noble Ducks doing, you ask?
Russ and Guy were kicking ass, of course, and Julie was more than holding her own with a particularly vicious member of the swim team. Dwayne and Luis had tried to make peace with their attackers at first, but after getting smashed in the face a few times, they decided that violence sometimes WAS the answer, and were now right in the middle of it like everyone else. Connie leapt on the back of the Varsity goalie (who had replaced Scooter when he graduated) and started to choke him, while Ken used this distraction to dart in and kick him in the balls as hard as he could. Charlie was duking it out with a boy of similar size, and though Adam did alright for himself, the Bashes had to step in occasionally to relieve him of his aggressors. Fulton and Portman? Suffice to say that together they did the work of many; kids were flying left and right as they hurled bigot after bigot into the ionosphere.
Bombay and Orien were the only adults trying to separate the warring throngs of children, and they were nowhere near enough. Just as Bombay had managed to strong-arm one girl off of another, he was hit hard in the ear by an errant blow from none other than Dean Portman, knocking him to the ground and loosening his grip on the girl, who wriggled out of his grasp and leapt back into the fray.
"This is insane!" cried Orien, as he helped Guy, who had been floored by the boy he was fighting, to his feet. "You have to stop!"
Guy shook his head. "Don't you get it? This had to happen, this or something like it. Everyone here is so repressed, this is probably the only time most of them have had to just let their emotions go. Now if you'll excuse me..."
He tried to return to the battle, but Orien held tight to his shirt. "No way Guy, I'm not going to let you..."
"Hey, Ted!" Orien turned at the sound of his name, only to greet the flying fist of Bernard Benson, history teacher and full-time asshole, with his face. "Take that, you arrogant bastard!" he shouted gleefully.
"Jesus Christ!" cried Bombay, as Guy leapt back into action and Orien grabbed Benson by the hair and began slamming his head repeatedly into the gym floor. "What do you think you're doing, Ted?"
"What about your role in all of this, Gordon?" It was John McNally, the school's guidance councillor, who was always at work trying to get the Ducks' scholarships revoked, claiming that the team was composed mainly of "delinquents and sociopaths."
"If it weren't for your providing such a bad example for these kids, we wouldn't be in this situation. You ought to be thrown in prison for corrupting young minds like you have. I plan to pursue this legally, believe me. You are to blame here, Gordon, and I am going to be sure everyone knows it."
Gordon looked at McNally, then over his shoulder at the battle that was still going strong, then back to McNally. "Fuck it," he muttered, and coldcocked the cheeky bastard with a vicious roundhouse.
***
So what happened after it was all over? How did it end? Why, happily, of course, what did you expect? The Ducks and their allies came out on top, just as everyone knew they would, though they acquired their fair share of injuries in the process, and the school nurse had to call in for an aid to help with all the stitching and bandaging. Scores of students and over a dozen teachers had taken part in the largest fracas in the history of the school, but were the police called? Of course not! The Dean and his board of alumni swept it all under the table, once security camera tapes made it clear that it was their sprightly offspring who had attacked the Ducks, and not the other way around.
The rest of the school year passed without further incident and though teachers frowned and students whispered, Adam and Charlie were free to walk hand in hand down the hall without fear of attack. Fulton and Portman were free to do the same if they wished, but holding hands had never been their thing.
As a rather interesting aside, the two girls who were the first non-Ducks to join the dance at the end of the night officially came out as well. Their names were Lynn Mykerson and Dakota White. They were both very involved in Eton's art program; Dakota took photographs, and Lynn did mixed media. In the years to come, they fought Eton's strident rules and policies with letter campaigns, petitions and protests, and while it only resulted in being expelled their senior year, they were both accepted to the prestigious Emily Carr art school on Granville Island in B.C. When Dakota published her first book of photographs to great praise at the age of19, she dedicated it as follows:
To Fulton Reed and the rest of the mighty Ducks: for paving the way.
***
It was shortly after three in the morning, and Fulton and Portman were snuggled on the couch in the attic. Portman had eight stitches above his eyebrow and three in his lip, while Fulton had five along his hairline, and another six on his hand, where he'd busted his knuckles open on some kid's head. The school had assigned them separate rooms when they found out they were together, so they'd spent most nights since then up here.
Portman reached out his hand for the pipe proffered by Fulton, as he watched the sweet-smelling smoke billow and furl above his head. How had it happened? How could everything go so wrong, and yet turn out so right? "You knew what would happen all along, didn't you? You had it planned from the start."
Fulton just smiled. Yes, he had suspected that a fight would break out at the dance, and he had seen it as the perfect opportunity to let it all come out. But it was more than just that. He had wanted to bring the Ducks together, to get them all fighting on the same side, like they used to do. You see, Fulton had realised something that hadn't occurred to any of the others; this was it. After this year, they were leaving on a jet plane to go see the world, and after that, everything would be different. Some of them would go off to play in the juniors, some in the minors, the rest would probably go to some other prep school on hockey scholarships. This was the last school dance they'd have together as a team, and going out the way they had was an experience none of them would ever forget. It was pure Duck magic.
Fulton took a deep hit and breathed out slowly. Crazy. His life was crazy. If anyone had told him when he was younger that this was where he was going to end up at age sixteen, he never would have believed them. He looked over at the boy sitting beside him and smiled. "Love ya," he said, planting a kiss on Portman's lips.
"Ditto," said Portman, returning the favour with a kiss of his own, and snuggling in even closer.
And that was how the Ducks found them the next morning when they came in to wake them up for a little scrimmage action; two enormous enforcers with hearts to match, wrapped in each others arms. True love was be hard to come by these days, and everyone agreed that it couldn't have happened to a better pair of guys than the Bash Brothers.
THE END (or is it?)