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4.
We were driving down a blessedly empty I-4, and I was following Margo’s
directions. The clock on the dashboard said it was 1:07.
“It’s pretty, huh?” she said. She was turned away from me, staring out the
window, so I could hardly see her. “I love driving fast under streetlights.”
“Light,” I said, “the visible reminder of Invisible Light.”
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
“T. S. Eliot,” I said. “You read it, too. In English last year.” I hadn’t actually
ever read the whole poem that line was from, but a couple of the parts I did read
got stuck in my head.
“Oh, it’s a quote,” she said, a little disappointed. I saw her hand on the center
console. I could have put my own hand on the center console and then our hands
would have been in the same place at the same time. But I didn’t. “Say it again,”
she said.
“Light, the visible reminder of Invisible Light.”
“Yeah. Damn, that’s good. That must help with your lady friend.”
“Ex-lady friend,” I corrected her.
“Suzie dumped you?” Margo asked.
“How do you know she dumped me?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Although she did,” I admitted, and Margo laughed. The breakup had
happened months ago, but I didn’t blame Margo for failing to pay attention to
the world of lower-caste romance. What happens in the band room stays in the
band room.
Margo put her feet up on the dashboard and wiggled her toes to the cadence
of her speaking. She always talked like that, with this discernible rhythm, like
she was reciting poetry. “Right, well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I can relate. My
lovely boyfriend of lo these many months is fucking my best friend.”
I looked over but her hair was all in her face, so I couldn’t make out if she
was kidding. “Seriously?” She didn’t say anything. “But you were just laughing
with him this morning. I saw you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I heard about it before first period,
and then I found them both talking together and I started screaming bloody

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murder, and Becca ran into the arms of Clint Bauer, and Jase was just standing
there like a dumbass with the chaw drool running out of his stank mouth.”
I had clearly misinterpreted the scene in the hallway. “That’s weird, because
Chuck Parson asked me this morning what I knew about you and Jase.”
“Yeah, well, Chuck does as he’s told, I guess. Probably trying to find out for
Jase who knew.”
“Jesus, why would he hook up with Becca?”
“Well, she’s not known for her personality or generosity of spirit, so it’s
probably because she’s hot.”
“She’s not as hot as you,” I said, before I could think better of it.
“That’s always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people would want to be
around someone because they’re pretty. It’s like picking your breakfast cereals
based on color instead of taste. It’s the next exit, by the way. But I’m not pretty,
not close up anyway. Generally, the closer people get to me the less hot they find
me.”
“That’s— ” I started.
“Whatever,” she answered.
It struck me as somewhat unfair that an asshole like Jason Worthington would
get to have sex with both Margo and Becca, when perfectly likable individuals
such as myself don’t get to have sex with either of them—or anyone else, for
that matter. That said, I like to think that I am the type of person who wouldn’t
hook up with Becca Arrington. She may be hot, but she is also 1. aggressively
vapid, and 2. an absolute, unadulterated, raging bitch. Those of us who frequent
the band room have long suspected that Becca maintains her lovely figure by
eating nothing but the souls of kittens and the dreams of impoverished children.
“Becca does sort of suck,” I said, trying to draw Margo back into conversation.
“Yeah,” she answered, looking out the passenger window, her hair reflecting
oncoming streetlights. I thought for a second she might be crying, but she rallied
quickly, pulling her hoodie up and taking The Club out of the Wal-Mart bag.
“Well, this’ll be fun at any rate,” she said as she ripped open The Club’s
packaging.
“May I ask where we’re going yet?”
“Becca’s,” she answered.
“Uh-oh,” I said as I pulled up to a stop sign. I put the minivan in park and
started to tell Margo that I was taking her home.

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“No felonies. Promise. We need to find Jase’s car. Becca’s street is the next
one up on the right, but he wouldn’t park his car on her street, because her
parents are home. Try the one after. That’s the first thing.”
“Okay,” I said, “but then we go home.”
“No, then we move on to Part Two of Eleven.”
“Margo, this is a bad idea.”
“Just drive,” she said, and so I just did. We found Jase’s Lexus two blocks
down from Becca’s street, parked in a cul-de-sac. Before I’d even come to a
complete stop, Margo jumped out of the minivan with The Club in hand. She
pulled open the Lexus’s driver-side door, sat down in the seat, and proceeded to
attach The Club to Jase’s steering wheel. Then she softly closed the door to the
Lexus.
“Dumb bastard never locks that car,” she mumbled as she climbed back into
the minivan. She pocketed the key to The Club. She reached over and tousled
my hair. “Part One—done. Now, to Becca’s house.”
As I drove, Margo explained Parts Two and Three to me.
“That’s quite brilliant,” I said, even though inside I was bursting with a
shimmering nervousness.
I turned onto Becca’s street and parked two houses down from her
McMansion. Margo crawled into the wayback of the minivan and returned with
a pair of binoculars and a digital camera. She looked through the binoculars first,
and then handed them to me. I could see a light on in the house’s basement, but
no movement. I was mostly surprised that the house even had a basement—you
can’t dig very deep before hitting water in most of Orlando.
I reached into my pocket, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed the number that
Margo recited to me. The phone rang once, twice, and then a groggy male voice
answered, “Hello?”
“Mr. Arrington?” I asked. Margo wanted me to call because no one would
ever recognize my voice.
“Who is this? God, what time is it?”
“Sir, I think you should know that your daughter is currently having sex with
Jason Worthington in your basement.” And then I hung up. Part Two: accompli.
Margo and I threw open the doors of the minivan and charged down the
street, diving onto our stomachs just behind the hedge ringing Becca’s yard.
Margo handed me the camera, and I watched as an upstairs bedroom light came
on, and then a stairway light, and then the kitchen light. And finally, the stairway
down to the basement.

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“Here he comes,” Margo whispered, and I didn’t know what she meant until,
out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a shirtless Jason Worthington wiggling out
of the basement window. He took off sprinting across the lawn, naked but for his
boxer shorts, and as he approached I jumped up and took a picture of him,
completing Part Three. The flash surprised both of us, I think, and he blinked at
me through the darkness for a white-hot moment before running off into the
night.
Margo tugged on my jeans leg; I looked down at her, and she was smiling
goofily. I reached my hand down, helped her up, and then we raced back to the
car. I was putting the key in the ignition when she said, “Let me see the picture.”
I handed her the camera, and we watched it come up on the screen together,
our heads almost touching. Upon seeing the stunned, pale face of Jason
Worthington, I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh, God,” Margo said, and pointed. In the rush of the moment, it seemed
that Jason had been unable to get Little Jason inside his boxers, and so there it
was, hanging out, digitally captured for posterity.
“It’s a penis,” Margo said, “in the same sense that Rhode Island is a state: it
may have an illustrious history, but it sure isn’t big.”
I looked back at the house and noticed that the basement light was now off. I
found myself feeling slightly bad for Jason—it wasn’t his fault he had a
micropenis and a brilliantly vindictive girlfriend. But then again, in sixth grade,
Jase promised not to punch my arm if I ate a live earthworm, so I ate a live
earthworm and then he punched me in the face. So I didn’t feel very bad for very
long.
When I looked over at Margo, she was staring at the house through her
binoculars. “We have to go,” Margo said. “Into the basement.”
“What? Why?”
“Part Four. Get his clothes in case he tries to sneak back into her house. Part
Five. Leave fish for Becca.”
“No.”
“Yes. Now,” she said. “She’s upstairs getting yelled at by her parents. But,
like, how long does that lecture last? I mean, what do you say? ‘You shouldn’t
screw Margo’s boyfriend in the basement.’ It’s a one-sentence lecture, basically.
So we have to hustle.”
She got out of the car with the spray paint in one hand and one of the catfish
in the other. I whispered, “This is a bad idea,” but I followed behind her,
crouched down as she was, until we were standing in front of the still-open

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basement window.
“I’ll go first,” she said. She went in feetfirst and was standing on Becca’s
computer desk, half in the house and half out of it, when I asked her, “Can’t I
just be lookout?”
“Get your skinny ass in here,” she answered, and so I did. Quickly, I grabbed
all the boy-type clothes I saw on Becca’s lavender-carpeted floor. A pair of jeans
with a leather belt, a pair of flip-flops, a Winter Park High School Wildcats
baseball cap, and a baby blue polo shirt. I turned back to Margo, who handed me
the paper-wrapped catfish and one of Becca’s sparkly purple pens. She told me
what to write: