Grasshopper Jungle - Andrew Smith

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headmaster patted his forehead, which was damp, with a handkerchief that had the Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy logo—a black cross surrounded by a bloodred heart—embroidered on its corner. I wondered if they had prepared him in his religious training for giving teenage boys talks about masturbating.

      He went on, “In history, entire armies have been defeated because their soldiers masturbated too frequently. It happened to the Italians in Ethiopia.”

      When he said the words too frequently, I wondered if there was some number higher than once or twice per day that would get me off the hook to hell and military failure.

      In any event, I hoped he was right. I hoped the bad guys in Afghanistan—where my brother, Eric, whose book got me into trouble, was fighting—were also excessive masturbators like the Italians.

      Pastor Roland Duff continued, “Masturbation can also turn boys into homosexuals .”

      When he said homosexuals, he waved his hands emphatically like he was shaping a big blob of dough into a homosexual so I could see what he was talking about.

      That frightened me, and made me feel ashamed and confused.

      Then he called my mother into the office and he talked to her about masturbation, too.

      Up until that day, I was certain my mother didn’t know there was such a thing as masturbation.

      As I stood there, shifting my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, Pastor Roland Duff told my mother about the Warning Signs of Masturbation, so she could keep a better watch over me.

      Then he sent me home with my mother and suspended me from classes for one day.

      When I came back to school, Mrs. Edith Mitchell made all the girls leave the classroom while Pastor Roland Duff explained the guidelines for books we boys were not allowed to read at Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy. We were no longer permitted to read any books that had masturbation, Catholics, or penises in them. Pastor Roland Duff gave the entire class of boys the same speech he’d given me about masturbation, weakness, and homosexuality.

      Once again, he blamed masturbation for Italy losing wars.

      That kind of shit never made it into history books, either.

      Sometimes, during his speech, he would remark, “As I was explaining to Austin Szerba . . .”

      And he would wave his hands as though he were shaping a doughy Austin Szerba in the air, so all the other boys could see what a boy who wrote a book report about masturbation and Catholics looked like.

      Then he led the boys in prayer and excused us so Mrs. Edith Mitchell could have a similar talk with the girls.

      Robby and I whispered outside that after all that masturbation talk, a cigarette would be nice.

      It was the worst day of my life since Eric left home.

      Everyone knew that I was the one to blame for all the trouble about masturbating. At Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy, you couldn’t hear the name Austin Szerba and not think about masturbating.

      I didn’t speak in class again for the rest of the year.

      Robby thought it was funny and told me I was brave.

      Best friends do that kind of stuff.

      When the boys were taken out of the room, I wondered if Mrs. Edith Mitchell was telling the girls about Austin Szerba, and how teenage boys masturbate, or if maybe she had found a book with girls who masturbated in it. Thinking about a book like that made me very horny.

      The library was quieter and emptier than usual for a long time after that day.

      But when the boys came back into the classroom, Shann deftly slipped a note onto my lap beneath our desks. I thought she was going to tease me about masturbating, but the note said this:

      Okay, I’ll admit it, Austin Szerba, you have finally won me over. I read The Chocolate War, too. I love that book. This school is full of shit. Let’s go get a Coke after class and hang out. By the way, I like what you’re wearing today.

      I was dressed exactly like every other boy at Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy.

      Later that day, Shann Collins and I kissed for the first time.

      It happened right after I said to her, “Stupid people should never read books.”

      AT ONE HOUR before midnight, Shann and I waited inside an old Ford Explorer parked behind the Del Vista Arms. Robby Brees, dressed in a pair of my clean white socks, best Adidas skate shoes, and Titus Andronicus T-shirt, dashed into his apartment to get us more cigarettes and wave, in passing, at his mother.

      Events that night were going to set in motion a disaster that would probably wipe out human life on the planet. That night, I was going to say something to Shann I had never said to anyone. I was going to do something I’d never done, and see things I could not understand and never believed existed.

      This is history, and it is also the truth.

      I sat in the front seat.

      Robby refused to chauffeur us around like he was some kind of limo driver, he said, so either Shann or I always had to sit up front with him. This rule increased the degree of difficulty in actually fulfilling my fantasy regarding Shann Collins and Robby’s backseat.

      But now, Robby was gone.

      “What are you doing?” Shann said as I shimmied my way between the front seats, over the center console where there was still an assortment of cassette tapes that had belonged to Robby’s dad.

      I thought what I was doing was obvious enough, so I said, “I’m looking for my death-ray gun.”

      “Well, if your ray gun doesn’t look like a pair of Robby’s underwear or socks, it isn’t back here.”

      Robby needed to stop accumulating so much laundry this way, but it did keep the floor of his room tidy.

      My foot got stuck between the passenger seat and console. My shoe came off. I left it there.

      “I’m coming back there with you till Robby comes out.”

      “Robby came out in the seventh grade,” Shann said.

      A lot of things happened in seventh grade.

      “There.” I said, “I’ve never been back here alone with you, Shann. It’s rather sexy.”

      I thought using the word rather would make me seem mature and like I was not from Ealing.

      “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before, Austin,” she said.

       “Rather?”

      “No. Sexy,” Shann explained. And she was right about that. I never had spoken about sex with Shann. I was too afraid to.

      “Well, it is sexy,” I said. I kicked off my other shoe and scooted myself against her.

      I put my arms around Shann. I leaned into her and brought my feet up onto the bench seat. I put my lips on her neck and licked her. She gasped.

      “Shann, I want to tell you that I’m in love with you. I love you, Shann.”

      I had never said that before, either.

      “Oh, Austin. I love you.”

      It was the first time Shann said it, too.

      Then the dome light in the Explorer blinked on. Robby opened the driver’s door.

      “You are not having sex in my car—on top of my clothes!” Robby said.

      I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but the basketball shorts I’d been wearing that day were halfway down to my knees.

      “Um.

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