Immediately I started scavenging everyone’s mind for their favorite book. From my afternoon classes, I got a long list that included Beloved, The God of Small Things, Hate You, Confessions of a Remorseless Teenager and Hamlet (I bumped into Dikker in the hall between classes). Then, after school I waylaid Cam and his buddies outside the guys locker room on their way into football practice, and got another barrage: Superman, Batman, The Hardy Boys, The Cat in the Hat and Playboy. Reading was obviously not these guys’ favorite activity.
“Hey, put me down for War and Peace,” added Len Schroeder, puffing out his chest and giving it a dramatic thump. “I read it for a book review I had to do in grade seven.”
Dubious groans erupted from the group.
“Yeah right,” said Gary Pankratz, punching his shoulder. “The Coles Notes version, maybe. That kind of stuff is for fags, anyway.” Dangling a wrist, he lisped, “Ulysses. That’s what I read before I go to sleep. A page a night for the past ten years.”
A guffaw rocked the group, and in spite of what had happened earlier that day with Diane and Geoff, I have to admit I laughed along with them. Not at the fag joke, but the idea of Gary Pankratz actually reading an entire page every night.
“What d’you want this for, Dyl?” asked Cam when the laughter had died down. As I explained about the library display, a broad grin took over Len’s face.
“Ditch War and Peace,” he said, “and change it to Treasure Island. And make sure you put it right across the guy’s dick in your display.”
Once again the group dissolved into laughter, taking me with them. These guys could occasionally be funny, even if they were illiterate. “Maybe I’ll use it for the girl,” I said, writing Treasure Island on my list.
“Uh-uh,” Len said quickly. “The girl’s would be Sweet Valley High.”
My mouth just dropped. I mean, I’d heard drug jokes about the series’ title, but never any sexual ones. “Okay,” I said, after everyone had calmed down. “What’s your favorite book, Cam?”
The other guys glanced at him, waiting for his reply, but Cam just stood there, staring at the floor.
“C’mon, Cam,” I said, elbowing him gently. “What’s the big secret?”
Reluctantly he glanced at me, his eyes kind of startled, almost frightened. For a second he reminded me of Tracey Stillman.
“I’ll think about it,” he said tersely, then turned to the group and said, “C’mon, we’ve got to get moving or Coach Gonie’ll be on our asses. See you later, Dyl.”
Then he was gone, the locker room door swinging shut behind him, while I stood staring at it. That hadn’t been like Cam. I’d never seen him freeze on an answer before—he was always ready with a quick reply. Something had to be bugging him. I’d get it out of him later on the phone.
Filing the incident at the back of my mind, I headed to the auditorium where I found Joc sprawled against the back wall behind a crowd of Shakespeare groupies while Mr. Tyrrell gave some feedback to several actors standing on the stage. An expression of infinite boredom on her face, she was reading a copy of Hamlet.
Dropping down beside her, I said, “Hey, I’m taking a survey of everyone’s favorite book. Shall I write you down for Hamlet?”
“Uh-uh,” she said emphatically. “Diane du Bois said she liked it, so I decided to try reading it. But so far the story sucks. It’s about some loser who spends all his time wandering around telling everyone else off. His dad is the king, and Hamlet thinks he’s the greatest. But then his dad gets murdered and comes back as a ghost, and tells Hamlet to kill his murderer. What kind of dad tells his son to go kill someone? Hamlet’s so screwed up, he can’t even get it on with his girlfriend. No wonder he couldn’t decide whether to be or not to be. I don’t get what Dikker sees in this stuff.”
“Maybe he’s decided to improve his mind,” I said, sucking back a grin.
“Yeah, well I think it’s screwing up his mind,” Joc grumbled. “He’s even started quoting entire speeches from other characters. Why should I have to listen to gobbledygook that isn’t even from his character?”
I gave up and let loose with a big grin. “C’mon, it is a step up from In Cold Blood,” I said. “You’ve got to admit that.”
“At least then I could tell what he was talking about,” Joc snorted. She darted me a suspicious glance. “Do you like Hamlet?”
“I’m with you,” I assured her. “I think he needed a good kick in the butt.”
“A definite kick in the butt,” agreed Joc, tossing the book to the floor in disgust. “Y’know, Dikker hardly even wants to make out anymore. He just sits there reciting lines and making me read along to make sure he’s got them right. He’s obsessed. I think he’s decided to memorize the entire play. This afternoon he told me he wants to become an actor.” She looked at me in horror. “He could be like this for the rest of his life.”
I tried very hard not to bust a gut laughing but was not what you would call successful. “You mean ten years from now I’m going to see him on TV doing used car commercials?” I wheezed.
“Oh, don’t,” moaned Joc. Collapsing against me, she buried her face in my shoulder. “Just don’t, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a flutter pass through my heart. A quiet thud-thud, thud-thud started up in my body—warm, soft and everywhere.
“Hey, Joc,” said a girl from the groupie crowd in front of us. “Dikker’s on.”
“Oh yeah,” Joc said disinterestedly, her face still buried in my shoulder.
Another girl turned around. “But it’s his big scene,” she said. “He doesn’t have a big scene,” Joc said glumly. “He comes on, farts, and goes off again.”
The groupies observed her in shock for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to the stage.
“Dikker’s going to hear about this,” I hissed at Joc. “The Shakespeare grapevine will be sure to get it to him.”
“I’ll tell him I have my period,” she mumbled.
“Hmmm,” I said, not wanting to get into that. “Hey, I’m still waiting for you to tell me your favorite book so I can add it to my list.”
“People Magazine,” Joc said dozily and yawned. I glanced down at her. Here my body was going thud-thud, thud-thud, and she was about to lose grasp on consciousness and slide into dreamland.
“Not a mag,” I said, “a book. Y’know, with lots of words and no pictures.”
“I don’t like those,” said Joc. “They remind me of Hamlet.”
“There are lots of books that aren’t Hamlet,” I said. “Pick one, any one.”
“Gone With the Wind,” Joc said finally. With a sigh, she snuggled deeper into my shoulder. “I liked that one. It had lots of words and no pictures, except on the cover.”
“The cover doesn’t count as a picture,” I said, writing it down. “And as far as I remember, Hamlet doesn’t show up in the plot anywhere.”
“Uh-uh,” said Joc. “Scarlet never even heard of him. He was just gone with the wind, and he should’ve stayed gone.” Pursing her lips, she puffed fiercely and said, “Go away, Hamlet. Go away.”
“He’s a goner,” I said, patting her head. “No sign of Hamlet anywhere. Except on that stage over there.”
“Keep him on that stage,” mumbled Joc, “and far away from me. If I have to listen to any more of that gobbledygook, I’m gonna barf, I swear.”
With that, she drifted off to sleep.
It was later that evening. Keelie had been put to bed, Danny was in his room playing video games and Mom and Dad were watching the late news. The house had settled into the quiet that comes with that time of day, all corner shadows and coffee-table lamp light, and I was where I usually was on a school night, doing you-know-what in my bed. As I got deeper into it, image after image started free-floating through my head—since I’d decided to let my mind go wherever it wanted, it definitely went there, straight to Joc, bringing sensations so vivid that I was left shuddery and gasping. But there’s no rest for the wicked. Just as I was hit with the sweetest, most vivid lightning bolt of sensation yet, my bedroom phone started ringing. Groaning loudly, I lay for a moment, letting my breathing slow as I returned to solid reality: bed under my back, amber quilt over my knees, one very grotty hand and a goddamn phone. With another groan, I rolled over and reached for it. Whoever this was, it had better be worth it.
“Hello?” I grunted.
“Dyl?” asked a voice. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”
It was Cam, his voice low and husky, so I knew he was probably lying in his bed and calling from his cell phone. What I would have given for one of those things, but Mom and Dad insisted on my having a regular phone—something about electromagnetic waves and brain tumors.
“No,” I said, taking a long slow breath. The images of Joc that had been invading my brain were fading now, almost gone. “How was practice?”
“The usual,” said Cam. “Grunt, slam, bash. It was great. What’d you do tonight? How’s Keelie?”
“Asleep, thank god,” I said. “She spent all evening zooming around the house on that broom. I swear she really thinks she can fly.”
Even on the phone, I could see the grin creeping across Cam’s face. “Maybe she can,” he said. “Maybe you just can’t see her doing it.”
Not sure what he meant, I said “Huh” and waited for him to explain.
“I’ve been reading about the wave particle theory for Physics,” Cam said hastily, as if embarrassed by the oddness of his statement. “Did you know that particles are also waves, and they only take particle form when you look at them? That means everything you see as solid is actually only solid when you’re looking at it. The rest of the time it’s in waves.” He paused, his voice wobbly with excitement. “And here’s the really weird thing—a particle doesn’t just exist in our universe, it slips back and forth between parallel universes.”
“Huh,” I said again, trying to keep up with what he was saying.
“So you see,” continued Cam, “it’s just possible that Keelie’s particles actually are flying when you’re not looking at her. She could be slipping into another universe where she really is playing Quidditch on a magic broom with good ol’ Harry.”
As Cam said this, I was hit full force with the memory of what I’d been doing before he called. What if...what if the particles in my body had been switching into waves and slipping into another universe where I actually was making it with Joc? Was that why it had felt so real? I mean, was it possible?
“Huh,” I said again, and Cam laughed low in his throat.
“I know,” he said. “Crazy Cam and his way-out ideas. But just think of it, Dyl—what if the present, the future and the past are all parallel universes, existing next to each other? And we can turn into waves and slip between them?”
“How would we do that?” I asked.
“With our thoughts,” he said. “We could think ourselves into the future and find out what’s there, maybe even change it. I read somewhere that there might actually be loads of parallel future universes, and by slipping into them with our minds, we can pick which one we want and make it real in this one.”
Again I thought about what I’d been doing before he called. “Huh,” I said.
“Bored?” Cam asked quickly.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Trying to work it out in my head.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been doing all evening— trying to figure it out. It means anything is possible, y’know. You can create your own future just by thinking it.”
A burst of phone static erupted as he rolled over on his bed and reached for something crinkly. Doritos, probably. Yup—a second later I heard him chomping away. Barbecue flavor, I could almost taste it.
“Hey,” I said, as the Doritos bag crinkled again. “Now that we’re here and focused in this universe...”
“Yup,” he said, chomping away. “Here and focused, Dyllie.” “What’s your favorite book?” I asked. “And why wouldn’t you tell me what it was this afternoon?”
There was a pause as Cam swallowed, the glugging sound traveling down his throat. “The guys,” he said finally. “They would’ve called me a fag. It just didn’t fit into the mood of the moment, y’know?”
Fag, I thought and winced. “Well,” I said, “the mood is now very moody. So tell me, I’m all ears.”
“I read it in grade nine,” Cam said slowly. “In the summer, up at the cabin. It’s a really great book.”
“Out with it,” I said. “The actual title.”
“The Once and Future King,” he said quietly. “By T. H. Whyte. Ever read it?”
“Uh-uh,” I said.
“It’s about King Arthur,” said Cam, “and his life as a kid with Merlin. His nickname was Wart, and then he became king and married Guinevere and got to know Lancelot. Lancelot’s the best part, really. No, Arthur is. No, maybe them both.”
On the word “both,” Cam’s voice quavered slightly, and my eyes widened. It sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. Giving a bit of a sigh, he said, “Anyway, I think that’s the title you should put on the guy’s dick. Not Treasure Island.”
“The Once and Future King?” I said, my eyes widening further. “Isn’t that kind of like calling yourself Dikker?”
“You have to read it, Dyllie,” Cam said earnestly. “It’s not like that at all. Arthur’s humble, almost like a servant. Yeah,” he said, his voice quickening, “a servant-king. And there’s this scene where Lancelot has to do a miracle to prove he’s pure, only he knows he isn’t because he’s been doing it with Guinevere behind Arthur’s back, and God won’t let him perform the miracle because of that. Only God does let him, and Lancelot heals a man. And then Lancelot bawls his head off, because he knows he’s been forgiven for everything wrong inside him.”
I lay silently, staring at the low glow of my walls in the lamp light. I’d never heard Cam talk like this, so raw, open from the inside out.
“We’re all like that, don’t you think?” he said, rushing on. “Like Lancelot—stuff wrong inside us but still wanting to do miracles. That’s why I think you should put The Once and Future King over the guy’s dick. Because that’s where a guy lives, in his dick. It’s his kingdom. If he’s right or wrong in his heart and head, that’s where it’ll show up—in his dick. He’ll be a bad king or a servant-king there. Or a Lancelot, performing miracles.”
“Huh,” I said again, listening to Cam breathe.
“Dyllie,” he asked after a bit. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking about what you said.”
He sighed again, a warm gush of sound. “I’m a bit of a kook, aren’t I?” he muttered.
“You’re the best damn guy on the planet,” I said fiercely. “Len and Gary and the other guys should’ve heard you say this.”
“Maybe,” he said softly. “Sometime when the mood gets moody enough. Read the book though, okay?”
“Yeah, I will,” I said. “I’ll sign it out of the library tomorrow.”
“Great,” he said, and I could hear him smile. “So, what are you going to put over the girl’s...uh, you-know-where? Sweet Valley High?”
“And get Ms. Fowler fired?” I said. “No, I was thinking of...”
I paused, my heart thudding slow and deep in my chest.
“Of what?” Cam prodded.
“Foxfire,” I said and waited. A long pause followed on the other end of the phone.
“That’s about a gang of dykes, isn’t it?” Cam asked finally. “Not all of them,” I said. “The book never says any of them are for sure. And some of them got married. One of them even had kids.”
Another long pause followed. “Someone told me what you said about it in class,” Cam said slowly. “Justice and sex and categories, something like that.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said. My heart was really thudding now. “Don’t you ever feel the walls closing in on you?” I went on quickly. “It’s as if everyone has a personal box inside them labeled ‘This Is What I Am,’ and all they want to do is squish themselves inside it and live there forever. Don’t you ever want to bust out of yourself, and this place and everything around you?”
“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “I guess. It just...didn’t really sound like you.”
“A very moody moment,” I said. “Y’know how it is.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Well, I’m kissing you goodbye now, Dyl. You know what I’ll be thinking about when I hang up.”
“Me too,” I said, giving the phone a big smooch. Hanging up, I turned out the light and lay staring at the darkness. That had been close, telling him about Foxfire. I’d thought I was about to have a near-death experience, I really did. But now it was over, and it didn’t sound as if Cam had guessed. So it would probably be all right to use Foxfire in the display—sort of like saying it and not saying it. I could look at it as I passed the display case and get used to it being out in the open, without actually having to tell anyone directly.
Closing my eyes, I let the particles of my brain slide into the long dark waves of sleep.