I Love You, Beth Cooper Read Free Page A

and cutoffs, caps and gym trunks, or, in the case of members of Orchesis, caps and orange Danskins, clustered in the same clusters they always had, in almost the exact spots they once ate lunch, even though none of the tables were there. Yet they all talked about how hot it had been in the gym and what they planned to do that evening, which was pretty much the same, only in different clusters.
    She was not there.
    ON THE REFRESHMENT TABLE a silver cube blasted the platinum thrash rap of Einstein’s Brain,
    Fuck this shit
    Nuff this shit
    The song captured the essence of adolescence and expressed it in easy-to-understand language, while simultaneously managing to aggravate adults, no mean feat these days. (Sales of the clean version were poor, however.)
    What you can do wit
    All this shit
    Just fuck it!
    Although Denis didn’t like thrash rap, he was feeling a little outlawish and this song, he decided, would serve as his own personal theme song, saying in rhyme what he had said in rhetoric. He moved closer to the table to facilitate others in making the connection.
    â€œOh, dear God,” Mr. Bernard said, rushing past Denis and picking up the music box, searching for a way to turn it off, or failing that, destroy it. Mr. Bernard did not like modern music or its devices, his primary qualifications to head the Music Department. He shook the box, but it only seemed to get louder:
    Fuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckit
    Mr. Bernard started to raise the box over his head.
    â€œLet me, Mr. Bernard,” Denis said, taking the cube from his twitching fingers. He pressed a nonexistent button on the metallic surface and the music changed to that Vitamin C song that wouldn’t go away. Momentarily lulled by the classical string opening, Mr. Bernard wandered away.
    He could have at least said Thank you , Denis thought, or Awesome speech.
    And so we talked all night
    about the rest of our lives
    Denis did his reconnaissance. He did not know what he would do if he found her, only that he needed to do it.
    Closest to the exit were clumps of parents who hadn’t been dissuaded from attending (Denis’s own parents seemed only too happy to wait out in the car, where the Sunday New York Times was). Mothers chatted up the teachers, hoping to squeeze out one last compliment about their children, while fathers checked their Treos for weekend business emergencies.
    Rich Munsch fidgeted beside his parents as his father interrogated Ms. Rosenbaum, his English teacher.
    â€œI mean,” Ed Munsch said, gesturing with his third complimentary Coca-Cola beverage, “is it really worth all that money to send him to college?”
    â€œEveryone should go to college,” Ms. Rosenbaum answered.
    Ed Munsch chuckled. “Well, not everyone .”
    BETH COOPER WAS NOWHERE.
    Denis began strolling, ostensibly checking things out but also providing an opportunity for the things to check him out. He was prepared to accept the accolades of his peers with good humor and a humble nod he had been practicing.
    He stopped at a twenty-foot orange-and-blue banner hanging on the wall. It read “Congrats to BGHS CLASS OF ’O7” and featured a Mighty Bison painted by Marie Snodgrass, who would one day go on to create Po Panda, star of Po Panda Poops and Oops, Po Panda! , two unnecessary children’s books. The bison wore a mortarboard and appeared to be drunk. Othergraduates stood around the banner, signing their names to heartfelt clichés and smartass remarks.
    No one took note of Denis.
    Denis pretended to read and appreciate the farewell messages while searching for his name. The only entry that came close was:
    I’m Gay, Dude, signed Richard Munsch
    Just below this was affixed:

    This was Stuart Kramer’s “tag”—which he used exclusively in bathroom stalls and on his notebooks—placed there to ensure proper credit for this witticism. Denis was annoyed; that was his line.
    Denis considered seeding