The Mutant loiters with the burns, nothing in her hands by way of smoking material that could get her bounced from hoops, but doubtless she is getting a whiff of the communal haze. On the outdoor court before school, she had been wearing thready Levis. Apparently in concession to the game-day dress rules—skirts or dresses for the girls, jackets and ties for the boys—she has simply removed her Levis, retaining the ragged tights underneath. Her “dress” is a long shapeless extra-large man’s T-shirt that clears her bottom by three inches, and over it, a man’s sweater vest, with the edges unraveled and the buttons removed. The T-shirt is sweat-stained and torn, the grey vest pilled and disreputable. The two pieces look like she raided some fat old man’s ragbag. She gets away with mocking the code because the administration is nervous about enforcing gender-specific rules.
At the Mutant’s side is Shasta Grey, a junior who used to live in Nodd’s Ridge. Grey nods at Sam. Remembering her in the second grade, a pallid little worm of a girl, her mouth ringed with cold sores, Sam nods back. She is a chainsmoker now, her butts burnt down to lipstick-stained filters.
J.C. has a pumped-up arm around Gauthier’s waist. She leans her bony hip into him.
“Talk to you?” Sam asks her.
The Mutant’s eyes are scornfully amused. “Fuck off.”
Grey and J.C. both laugh.
“Later,” Sam says. “First I need to talk to you.”
“You heard her, Samson,” J.C. says, genially flicking a lighted cigarette at him. “Fuck off, man.”
Sam’s hand snakes out and catches the tumbling butt before J.C. finishes speaking. Unsmiling, he hands it back to him. J.C. looks at it with raised eyebrows and then plugs it back into his mouth with a laugh.
“Didn’t know I had to check with your appointments secretary, Deanie,” Sam says, and turns away, too cold to put up with the bullshit.
The Mutant hasn’t heard her given name in so long, it takes a second to realize he has used it. It has the shock of a broken taboo. She presses J.C.’s arm and bounds after Sam.
“Wait a minute.”
Sam stops.
J.C. watches a moment, then turns away with a shrug to take another drag. Grey leans close to whisper in his ear.
Sam is irritable, sick of the Mutant’s attitude, of Attitude, period. Inside his sneakers, he curls his toes against the cold. The wind cuts like a rain of razors through the layers of his longjohns and fleece sweatpants.
“You want to win the state this year?”
Her eyes narrow. “You need to ask?”
“You can’t do it with frostbitten fingers.”
She sets her mouth in a sarcastic scar. “Oh fuck you very much.”
He returns the sarcasm. “You’re welcome.”
She starts to turn back to her burn buddies.
“It’s too cold outside,” Sam says. “You should be able to use the gym. Get your team to ask your coach and the principal for equal morning access with the boys. Hit them with it on the bus tonight after the game, when they’re pumped. I’ll work it from my end. We ought to be able to work something out where we alternate three mornings one week, two the next.”
She stared at him. “No shit. Why are you doing this? It’ll cut into your time.”
“ ‘Cause it’s fair.”
He walks away before she can say anything more. He’s not doing it for her. She may be the drive wheel but she’s not the only talent. The Jandreau twins, Billie Figueroa, Nat Linscott, Debbie Michaud, they all deserve another jab at the state title. Just a few words with her are enough to confirm she’s a burn, a scrubber, a foul-mouthed butthead.
The Mutant is his sister all over again, only worse. Karen doesn’t shave her head—yet. Somehow she missed that numb stunt, but it must be the only one. One of these days, the Mutant will drop out of school, just like Karen, and he’ll see her on some street corner with a bellyful of another nobody’s child. It was some kind of union rule with girls like them.
J.C. ignores the Mutant’s return for a moment and then, in a bored tone, asks, “What was that about?”
Hands in her pockets, the Mutant swivels away from the others. J.C. moves with her, leaning close.
“Just b-ball shit.”
J.C. hauls out a handkerchief and wipes his nose.
“What’s this shit about Samson falling all over you and the rest of the babes yesterday? First I hear about it is just now from Grey.”
The Mutant shrugs. “You want to know every frigging thing I do, hire a camera crew. Go to the videotape.”
J.C. clears his throat and spits but then he grins.
Teeth chattering, the Mutant hugs herself and stamps her feet. After disbelief, her first reaction to Samgod’s curious initiative is she wants it, for herself, for her team. She is angry that she didn’t think of it herself and even more furious that it’s any kind of question. Why should the gym just automatically belong to the boys in the morning?
In the girls’ room nearest the cafeteria, someone is barking up lunch in the stalls. The Mutant gags loudly, setting off an imitative chorus among the girls doing hair and makeup in front of the mirror.
In response comes an angry choked cry: “Fuck you, you fat bitches!”
The Mutant recognizes Cady Flemming’s voice. “Come on, Flem,” she shouts, “chuck it up, baby!”
A roll of toilet paper comes sailing over the stall door, spinning out a comet tail as it flies.
“Eat it, Mutant,” Cady screams. “Choke on it!”
The Mutant grins into the mirror.
Cady’s been doing Puke Watchers all semester. The Mutant admires the cheerleader’s dedication. The Gag Squad bitches can all go puke in their fuck-me hairdos as far as she’s concerned. She watches them as they bounce through their little rah-rah routines and can’t believe they have the nerve to call shaking their tits and asses while chanting moronic doggerel a sport. If that’s a sport, then jerking off should be in the Olympics.
Though the Mutant is eligible for
