I never responded. The first time he did this to me all I could see was Celeste Carpenter sitting ten feet away with her gorgeous skin, propped cleavage, and resolute detachment. As days wore on, I let my vision lose focus so that the entire class merged into a multicolored blur. Yes, it was true that I smelled terrible, though I doubted it was the fault of my sebaceous glands. It was the third week of school and I was wearing unwashed clothes for a third or fourth cycle. There were no laundry facilities in my father’s cabin, and I had yet to see how he washed his own clothes, if he ever did.
In the first month of school, I was kicked in the crotch roughly once a week and faked out dozens more times. Though Woody himself never resorted to physical contact, the attacks were clearly done at his pleasure, and he still called me Crotch when the opportunity arose—though he took care not to do it in front of adoring teachers and coaches. On those rare occasions when he was caught contributing to my debasement, the reprimands were superficial and his wide-eyed apologies held up as paragons of heartfelt atonement. More than once I was encouraged to shake his hand.
Many of the kicks occurred in gym, which had proved to be life’s most harrowing regular event. The class, which came two days per week in alternation with study hall, had yet to move beyond tedious but nerve-wracking preliminaries. One week we did sit-ups. The next, push-ups. This left plenty of time for worrying about my genitals. Woody and Rhino were both in my gym class—Celeste was, too—so I kept my hands at a defensive belt-level until we were sent to change out of the compulsory dark shorts and white tees.
The muffled noise of teaching provided the bridge between these more vivid events. I took notes and read my assignments, and even studied for quizzes. I didn’t see any reason to let my A average slide into the trash along with the rest of my life. Around the fourth week, important tests were doled out in several classes, and I scored perfect on all of them. While handing back the exams, a couple of the teachers took a moment to give me their best imitation of approval, though it was clear they considered the accomplishments flukes. They didn’t know that I was my mother’s son, not my father’s.
There was no official chair rank at Bloughton, but it took only one practice with the entire band to glean that Ted sat the most talented players closest to the center, while the less gifted fanned off to the edges. I was pleased to find that the dividing line for the trumpets fell directly between me and a girl named Tess. She had tight curls of blond hair, pointy features alleviated by makeup, and a robotic technique probably acquired through a lifetime of detested lessons. As was often the case with the female brass players I had known, Tess seemed embarrassed by the forceful blowing required by the instrument—it messed up her lipstick and forced her to relinquish her carefully crafted smile and posture. She could play better than I when forced, but lazed through most of the practices, absently running her painted nails along her necklace. The only time she spoke to me was one afternoon when Woody entered the room to hand Ted a note. As resident superhero, Woody was often enlisted by teachers to run errands. This roaming naturally made him even more unpredictable and dangerous, and on this particular day it brought him into the soundproofed confines of the band room.
“Isn’t he hot?” Tess whispered to me, pulling on her necklace faster than usual.
In better days I would not have dignified such a statement with a response, but it had been weeks since someone had addressed me in a manner other than hostile, so I reluctantly took the bait. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess, if he’s your type.”
“He is.” She moaned through a pouty frown. “I can’t believe he goes out with Celeste Carpenter.” She looked at me. “You know who she is?”
Every time I turned a corner at school and saw a female, my heart leapt to my throat in the thrilled certainty that it would be Celeste Carpenter. I saw her face in my notes, in my books, in my dreams. “Yeah, I know who she is,” I responded.