The Parallel Apartments by Bill Cotter Page B

math and civics (and who, in a recent poll conducted by a private group at Austin High in order to subvert school spirit and to amuse themselves, had been voted Most Likely to Choke on a Large Dick), had seen them twice now, and told Livia that she intended to become not just Ye Moppe Hedds’ most zealous groupie but Burt Moppett’s personalaide-de-camp and concubine. In contrast to Livia, the richer Brenda’s crush, the more proactive Brenda became.
    Livia, with uncharacteristically little compunction, began to realize that the social dynamic at work might allow her to exploit her friend, Burt-wise. Livia began tutoring Brenda more and more. For free. Livia was smart enough—possibly the smartest person in the whole school—that she could have tutored anybody in anything, for money. But the potential payoff—Burt—was worth some free lessons on checks and balances and the volume of a sphere.
    â€œAnything he wants, Livie,” Brenda had said one afternoon in the school cafeteria while they observed Burt, who was napping across four cafeteria chairs a few tables over. “Anything. I’ll get it. I’ll do it.”
    A nearby group of gangly junior-varsity basketball players was practicing trajectories on Burt with balls of compressed hamburger bun. Since Burt, when planning his nap, had apparently pushed in his four chairs first and then gained them by crawling under the table, he was almost completely bunkered and practically inaccessible to bun wads. On top of the lunch tables a small bunch of bananas, a pile of weathered schoolbooks, and a couple of sleeveless 45s waited for him to wake.
    â€œI wish they’d leave him alone,” said Brenda, trying to peel open a half-pint carton of chocolate milk. “He rehearses and composes all night and he’s sleepy.”
    â€œThat’s the wrong side,” said Livia. “Open the carton on the side with the arrows. Okay, now, back to question number six: the quadratic formula is an example this type of—”
    â€œCome hear them with me Tuesday, Liv. At Wolford’s. You know, he wrote a song about me, called ‘Brenda,’ and he’s going to sing it for the first time. It might even be on the record. You knew that International Artists Records wants to maybe sign him?”
    â€œNo fooling?”
    â€œBut when you hear him sing and play electric guitar, and see how groovy he is, don’t you fall for him, Livia Durant, because he’s mine. You’re allowed to be a frantic groupie, though. You won’t be able to help it, anyway.”
    Brenda had delaminated both gables of the tiny carton, but a tougher sub-integument kept the carton firmly sealed and the milk from Brenda.
    â€œHe looks pretty goofy,” said Livia, working to convince Brenda of her own indifference regarding Burt. To add to this charade, Livia yawned andtook the chocolate milk carton away from Brenda to give it a try herself. “And he’s got those holes in his face.”
    â€œThey look like big dimples when he’s onstage in the dark,” said Brenda, going through her purse for something. “Come with me. You’ll see.”
    Brenda took the carton back and tried to stab it with a bobby pin.
    The ballplayers meanwhile had discovered that a bun wad carefully aimed and thrown hard, with a low, flat trajectory, could possibly travel under the table and peg Burt in the temple, but no one had yet succeeded, even though Bo Fettle, a mean, eczematic country boy whose eyes were cyclopially close together, had come very close.
    â€œHow do you get in?” said Livia. “We’re not old enough.”
    â€œQuit that, Bo, you jackass!” shouted Brenda.
    Bo skyhooked a hamburger patty, which slapped meatily on the linoleum behind Livia.
    â€œI can get us in,” said Brenda. “Through the back where they take the trash out. I know the fry cook. I won’t tell you how.”
    Livia