I walk with Bumlets the next morning to Biology because I really have nothing better to do. On our way, we pass a tall boy in a pink shirt arguing with a violent-looking one in a wife beater.
"Goddamnit, Oscar," he's shouting. "I don't have your fucking CD. Or, if I do, it's because your shit is everywhere."
"Oh fuck off Skits. I know you have it just to spite me."
"Yeah because I do things like that."
Bumlets and I laugh as we pass them.
"A modern Lemmon and Matthou," he remarks.
As it usually is with Bumlets, I don't understand him. He must've seen my look of confusion because he explains it.
"Oscar and Felix. The Odd Couple?" he tries. "Sitcom starting in 1968 about two very different roommates?"
I can almost hear crickets from my side of the audience. He sighs and waves a hand.
"Never mind," he says. "I forget that you're uninformed."
I choose to ignore that and we walk into the classroom. Biology is basically naptime for fifty-two minutes. Our teacher, a tall, sissy of a man who insists that we call him Jonathon teaches it and never uses any discipline. He has all the spine of a pillow. So while he rhapsodizes about the difference between a turtle and a tortoise, the class of twenty-seven sleeps or draws or listens to music or talks. It's a pretty sweet deal actually. We take our seats that Swifty has so nicely saved—he always gets to class first—and Bumlets cell phone starts ringing. Naturally, it's the theme from The Brady Bunch. He looks at the number and stuffs it in his bag.
"Pie?" Swifty cocks a brow.
"Pie," he confirms. "Boy won't leave me alone."
"Iknowright? Imeanhetotallyisbuggingmeduringclassyesterdayaboutwhyyouaren'treturninghiscallsorwhatever," he says. "It's annoying."
Bumlets, employing some skill I had yet to learn, understands all of this. I, however, just hear 'blah-bee-bloo-blee-blah' and can only nod my head. This, though, once again confirms my thoughts that no one in this school is straight. No boy anyway. I notice the girls in the class fawning over Jack. Much to my hormonal happiness, he ignores them and continues talking to the short, big-eyed boy who looks to be about thirteen.
"Ooh, happy turtles again!" Bumlets enthuses. "I can hardly wait."
Swifty nods as Specs comes in and sits next to him. I'm thankful since I feel out of sorts with just those two.
"Hey," he seems out of breath. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," Bumlets says. "But we're learning about turtles again. Makes me want to—"
"Make a sitcom reference and I'll burn your Christopher Knight poster," Specs threatens good-naturedly.
This earns him a shove. I smile, feeling better.
"Hey Mouth! Sit up here!" Jack calls down to me.
I feel a swelling of joy and pride as I get up to join him. He smiles at me in this magnanimous, sexy way that makes me want to jump him. Instead, I just sit in the open desk.
"Spot," he says to the short boy next to him. "This is Mouth. He's new here."
"David," I say.
"Hi, Mouth," Spot grins but it's a lot scarier than Jack's. He looks like a little bunny, it seems. The bunny from Monty Python and the Holy Grail but still a bunny.
My true introduction to Spot, I would find, will come much later. For now, he's just the intimidating boy on Jack's other side.
"So what's your poison?" Jack asks.
"Writing."
"So the Mouth writes?" his smile widens. "Fascinating."
I want to say that what is fascinating is the fact that he looks like a Greek God but I refrain and just nod my head, trying not to open my mouth and make things worse.
"Ooh," Spot deadpans. "Turtles again."
He scribbles on a blank sheet of loose-leaf, a turtle that looks run over cooking on a frying pan. I turn away and concentrate on Jack. He's talking to me, good sign. However, it's in a slightly condescending mocking tone but still…talking. I don't like how he calls me Mouth though. Wasn't Mouth that annoying kid Corey Feldman played in The Goonies? Shit, I hope Jack doesn't make the connection. I can only foresee cries of 'HEY YOU GUUUYS!' and other quotes from that Godforsaken movie I had loathed in my youth and loathe even more now.
"Rather," Jack says before turning back to me. "So Mouth…make anyone do the Truffle Shuffle yet?"
I hate my life.
"No," I say. "But maybe I'll make you do it if you keep calling me Mouth."
I now am to learn that Jack is an exhibitionist. A big one. He stands up, lifts his shirt and starts shaking about. The fact that he has not one bit of excess fat on him—just sculpted abs that make my stomach churn—makes it all the more hilarious.
"Are you Jewish?" Spot asks me harshly.
I'm tempted to roll my eyes but I'm afraid that if I do, he'll reach over and jam his pencil up the nose. It's very, very obvious that I'm Jewish. I may as well have a neon Star of David flashing about my head.
I settle for a "Yes."
"We can call you Feldog!" Jack enthuses, coming back down. "If you don't want to be called Mouth."
"Can't you call me by my name?" I ask.
"No," Jack says brightly.
I may be getting a hard-on but this boy is seriously starting to get on my nerves.
"Fine…call me Mouth."
"Awesome."
I hate him. I hate him. I—
"Or just David," he says. "It has less drug-addicted-child-star connotations."
I love him.
