XXXII
So...
After biology class.
In my pretty, powder blue pantsuit . . .
A hibiscus behind my ear.
Not a care in the world.
Skip to the loo!
La la la.
“BIB! BIB! WAIT UP!” I yelled. He turned and looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and continued walking.
“Whoooooo!” I screamed again, and LEAPED in front of him, blocking his path. He looked down at me like I was a swishy insect that needed squashing. But before he had the chance, I threw my arms in the air and shouted: “Bib, DAR-ling! Lover! Poodle!”
He looked around in wild alarm, embarrassed and confused—was this some kind of joke? Were the guys playing a trick on him?
“Now, Bib,” I continued. “Or should I call you HUGGY DA LUV THUG?”
He froze.
“Get over here,” he said, and pushed me behind a bank of lockers.
“What is this, Billy?” he whispered menacingly. “Is this your idea of a joke?” He leaned in close, so close I could smell his sexy, big-boy breath. It smelled like protein shakes and oatmeal. “You better have a good explanation for this.”
Well, I was terrified, of course. I was taunting Kong in his chains. But I kept telling myself not to worry, that I was Superfreak, remember? I was invincible. I was a mighty drag warrior, and that he was the oppressor. He deserved this. So I brazenly barreled on, in full auto-queen mode, blithely rattling on in the face of certain doom.
“Well, LOVER, I’m so glad I found you. I had been just WRACKING MY BRAIN trying to come up with a song to play on my float, a theme song that really speaks to me, you know?
“You’re still pissing me off, Bloom. Get to the point.”
“Well, my theme is RETRO BOY BAND! YES! HOT, RIGHT! So picture my float: it’s me on a flatbed, lip-synching in front of a bank of forty television screens, singing along to the sweet, sweet harmony of . . . oh, gosh . . . what were they called? Who were those adorable street urchins that reached #173 on the Billboard charts in the summer of 1999?”
“Lower your voice, Bloom. I’m warning you!”
“Oh, now I remember! DA LUV THUGS! YES! With their lead singer, HUGGY THUG! Good stuff, there, huh? Now, I just can’t decide between ‘Mackin’ on da Playground’ or ‘Sour Patch Girl’? Hmmmm . . . ‘Sour Patch,’ of course, features one of your best performances, the spoken word love poem at the end, where you start to cry—I COULD JUST LISTEN TO THAT ALL DAY! But then in the video for ‘Mackin’,’ you’re all wearing those identical red leather jump-suits. . . . That’s a pretty hot visual. And of course, it will be on the jumbo screen above the football field, as well. And maybe I could be wearing a red leather jumpsuit, too! Hey, do you still have yours?”
“I’ll kill you,” he said simply.
“What?”
“Look, Butt-lick, I don’t know how you found out about the Luv Thugs; but if you don’t shut up, I’ll pound your faggot face so hard, you’ll MISS that coma, got it? You either drop it or you’re dead—it’s that simple.”
“And SURPRISE!” I said triumphantly. “You’re on HIDDEN MICROPHONE!”
I opened my blazer to show him the microphone while Mary Jane simultaneously knocked from behind a window, pointed to her headphones and mini-tape recorder, and gave a big thumbs-up.
“That makes THREE recordings of HUGGY DA LUV THUG that I own now! Maybe I can make a mashup and play your death-threat confession over a chorus of ‘Sour Patch Girl’!”
I could see the steam rising off his ears, and the whites of his eyes had suddenly turned bright red, so I knew he was about to lose his oatmeal-addled mind, any second.
“What’s this about?” he said quietly, instead of ripping out my spleen.
“Simple. I just want us to be friends, Bib.”
“Funny way of going about it. Just tell me what you want.”
“I need your support.” And I handed him a Scarlet F.
“NO! NO! NO WAY!”
“Hey, did I mention that if I’m elected, YOU’LL be my king? Queen picks her king, you know! I’m so excited. And that first dance will be just the beginning of our new working relationship. We’ll be together at every school function, in all the local papers, as the official representatives of the academy, even on the yearbook cover. And then, of course, we’ll be reunited at untold homecoming games in the future. We’ll be part of Eisenhower history. Forever linked together.”
He punched the locker, denting it and bloodying his knuckles.
“Easy there, Ox. I have a Plan B. If you help me out, I’ll drop the whole thing and go with a butterfly-and-rainbow theme. Five minutes of your time, tops. That’s it. That’s all I want.”
“Grrrrrr.” Then: “When?”
“The pep assembly, tomorrow, when Lynnette and I give our speeches. You’ll be on the platform, behind us. After I finish mine, you hold it up. After I leave the stage, you can put it down. Then you can set it on fire, or piss on it, or frame it and keep it by your bed. I don’t care.”
“I freakin’ hate you.”
“I know. It’s such a shame. In any other circumstances, we could have been so close.”
And that’s how Bib came to be on the front page of the Eisenhower Dispatch holding a giant Scarlet F at the pep assembly.