20

Brandon schedules the next meeting for Wednesday lunchtime, which means I’ll have to stand Abby up at lunch again. This will annoy her because she’ll know where I am and she won’t like it. We’ve avoided the topic since our run-in last week, but I know it still bugs her. Even the last quartet practice seemed kind of flat.

On the way to the meeting I stop off at the vending machine to grab a can of Dr. Pepper. Almost immediately Brandon sidles up, tutting loudly.

“Not impressive, Kev,” he sighs.

“Oh, I don’t normally drink this stuff, but—”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the fact that you’re about to put money in this machine.” He slides in front of me and holds down the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons. “Now push the button you want,” he instructs.

I hesitate a moment, wondering if I’m about to become the butt of a joke. If so, at least there’s no one around to see it.

I tentatively push the Dr. Pepper button. A can rolls out. A Dr. Pepper can, to be precise.

“The guy who owns the vending machine compiled the Book of Busts back in 1973,” Brandon says, like this explains what just happened. “He’s old as hell now, but he still remembers the glory days at Brookbank.”

I try to hide my smile. “Did you just get me a free Dr. Pepper?”

“Damn right.”

“But how?”

“The owner rewired it for us.” Brandon leans over and helps himself to a Mountain Dew. “But only important people know about this trick, so if you tell anyone else, there’ll be hell to pay. Understand?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“Cool.” He cracks open his can and bumps it against mine. “So all you have to do is press the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons at the same time as the one you actually want. It takes a bit of practice, but you’ll get it.”

“What if I want Diet 7-Up or Diet Coke?”

Brandon’s upper lip curls. “Diet drinks are for girls. You’re not a girl, are you?”

“Um, no.”

“Good. Then there’s no problem, right?”

“Well, no. But doesn’t the guy who stocks the machine notice there are cans missing?”

Brandon laughs. “Oh, that’s the best thing of all. Because the inventory never balances out on this machine, the owner can use it as evidence to fire employees who aren’t pulling their weight. So we get free drinks and he gets to run a more efficient business.”

“But … that’s illegal, isn’t it?”

Brandon puts his arm across my shoulders and lowers his voice. “Do you realize how hard it is to fire people legally these days? Even complete slackers are untouchable. I’m telling you, every time we take a can we’re making the world a better place.”

“Oh.”

“And remember what I said about us being part of something bigger than ourselves? This is exactly what I’m talking about. We’re like a fraternity, only without the Greek letters—”

“Or the kegs,” I remind him.

“Huh? No way. We have the kegs.”

“Oh.”

Brandon turns and ambles along the corridor. He doesn’t seem to mind me tagging along.

“What I’m saying is, back in 1973 this owner guy was you, Kev. He was the man. And when you’re the man, people’ll always look out for you.” He ruffles my hair. “You do realize you’re the man now, right?”

“Um … yeah, I guess.”

“Good. ’Cause there’s something I need to give you.”

Brandon stops beside his locker and opens it. He reaches in and removes a sturdy black box with the reverence normally reserved for holy relics. Inside the box, layer upon layer of tissue paper covers a cracked, ancient-looking, brown leather book.

“This,” whispers Brandon, “is the original Book of Busts.”

As he gently places it in my hands, my first thought is that it’s about to fall apart. Not only does the cover bring new meaning to the term “distressed leather,” but the book is stuffed to bursting with dog-eared pieces of paper in every imaginable shade of yellow, cream, and off-white. Every page chronicles a portion of each senior class of Brookbank girls, and all the pages have been meticulously bound together with string.

I turn to the beginning of the book, where the photographs are pretty faded. I notice that the numbers below the photos haven’t changed much over the years, but that’s less extraordinary than the horrific array of over-permed and beehive hairstyles; truthfully, having Jessica Alba’s figure wouldn’t help any of these girls.

I leaf through until I reach the 1980s, figuring there’ll be a higher proportion of hotties here, but instead my eyes are assaulted by a criminally large number of wild, gel-induced bangs. It’s not until I get to the twenty-first century that I find myself the slightest bit attracted to Brookbank’s senior girls.

“Amazing, isn’t it,” says Brandon. “It’s a historical document, when you think about it.”

“It’s old, all right.”

“And now it’s yours to keep until you’ve completed the entries for our year. When you’re done, we’ll remove the sheets from your folder and bind them into the book.” He nods his head approvingly. “You’ve earned this, Kev. You’re really getting the job done. I’m proud of you.”

“Um, thanks, Brandon. I appreciate you saying that.” I feel a little choked up. “Look, I just have to ask … why me? I mean, this is such an honor, and I guess I still don’t get why you let me do it.”

“Can you imagine any of the other guys appreciating the significance of an antique like this?” he laughs.

I laugh too. “I guess not.”

Brandon looks up and down the corridor, and thinks for a moment. “Okay, look, it’s true that the head of the Rituals usually keeps the book for himself, or gives it to one of the most popular guys in school as a reward. But the way I see it, all that does is limit the Rituals to a small group.”

Brandon closes his locker and gazes longingly at the book, like he isn’t quite ready to bid it farewell.

“Back when it started, the Book of Busts involved everybody. It was a source of school pride. But over the years, the other parts of the Graduation Rituals—the Alternative Yearbook, the Strategic Graffiti Campaign—got added, and the significance of the book got diluted. Now most guys don’t even bother to join in at all. So when you said you wanted to do the book, I realized this was my chance to remind everyone that the Rituals are bigger than any one person.”

“That’s for sure.”

“And look at you now. You’re popular, and unlike most of the other guys you deserve that, because you’ve taken your job seriously. And future generations of Brookbank seniors are going to remember you for it too.”

I have to admit that his hyperbole is quite alluring. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. You’re the guy who’s going to prove that the book is still relevant … You’re my legacy, Kev. I know you won’t let me down.”

Once the meeting begins, Brandon turns to Spud and wrings his hands anxiously, which is an unusual sight.

“So Spud, about the Alternative Yearbook … ”

Spud nods.

“Well, we, like, put you in charge of it … ”

Spud nods.

“And, like, from what I’ve been hearing you haven’t exactly been asking around for information … or help.”

Spud nods.

“So I guess what I’m saying is, are you into the whole Alternative Yearbook thing?”

Spud nods. “Dude.”

Brandon visibly relaxes. “Cool. So you’re making progress?”

Spud nods. “Dude.”

“So can we see what you’ve got so far?”

“Whoa,” grunts Spud, like a pit bull guarding a bone.

Brandon drops the matter because he values his life. Then he looks over my way and asks for an update. I notice he doesn’t seem as intimidated by me.

“Well,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “I’ve got an entry for Jessica Pantley.”

“Cool. Who gave you that?”

“No one. I got it myself.”

“So … you had a date with Jess Pantley?”

“Yup.”

At least half the jaws in the room are hanging open, and although it’s not a pretty sight, the effect is quite empowering.

Brandon tries to hide his surprise. “So what are her stats?”

I pretend to study the book as if I haven’t actually memorized them already. “34B-25-35.”

“34B my ass,” shouts Zach. “Don’t tell me, you used the same scientific guesswork as before.”

“Actually, I felt them, and they’re right on 34B.”

“You felt them? Or did you just have a grope while she was still wearing a bra?”

I don’t say anything.

“See! You didn’t touch them at all. She was probably wearing a padded bra, you moron.” He looks imploringly at Brandon. “Come on, Brandon, it’s time for dorkus here to go.”

“Zach,” says Brandon soothingly, “the fact is, Kev has filled in the blanks under two prized girls, in one week. All you had to do was dish the dirt on Taylor—who happens to be your girlfriend, by the way—but you haven’t even managed that. So until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of the job, how about you get off Kevin’s case?”

Being Brandon’s best buddy has some real perks.

Zach nods slowly. “All right, I’ll get you Taylor’s numbers,” he mumbles. “Leave it to me.”

A part of me wants to say that this is quite unlikely since she’s dumped him. But then I wonder, what if she hasn’t actually dumped him? What if she’s just two-timing him? And so I decide to keep my mouth shut.

But I’ll still go on a date with her, because if she is two-timing Zach, I’ll enjoy myself even more.