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  I nodded but thought, Don’t screw it up…don’t screw it up…

  Listen, I have a serious problem performing in front of dudes who hold my future in their hands. They start my head monkey-talking. And, in the next race, the 200 final, they caused me to seriously run weird.

  In the blocks, I was totally aware of the guy in the gold and blue standing at the railing. I thought: Michigan. He stood next to another guy in a red and white shirt, with a little tree on his boob. I thought: Stanford. I should’ve been thinking, Explosion. I should’ve been filling with Jamaican Kangaroo Juice. Instead, I felt weak pools of tar in my legs and my heart pumped funny.

  When the gun popped, I struggled out of the blocks. My brain said, Run fast. Jerri won’t have to pay for college. This is your future! My legs said, We are made of elephant turds. Because I was out front of Ngelale on the stagger, I still led the race for most of the way (me sort of odd-running, sort of stumbling down the track). He was not bumbling, though. He flat-out flew and he caught me on the final curve. (Indoor track curves are tight.) Then we were stride for stride down the straightaway (lots of crowd screaming) and right together when we crossed the line.

  Because I ran funny (not my normal easy stride), something weird happened in the last few meters. It felt like a tiny man had a wrench cranked on one of the tendons in my hamstring. I actually slowed a little, I’m sure. And I was thinking, Huh? What is that little pain? Turns out short hamstrings are a genetic Reinstein disorder. I didn’t know that then. I thought, Huh???

  At the line, Ngelale threw his arms over his head and screamed like he was the king of the whole world, because he thought he got me. He turned back to me and hugged me, and I hugged him back and said good job, but I wasn’t even worried about whether I’d won or not. I worried that I’d forgotten how to run. I worried that I had a little man in my hamstring, and I bent over and thought, What in the hell is that? and started massaging the little man, trying to get him to go away.

  Unfortunately, just as I bent over, a photographer for the State Journal snapped a picture (me bent over, rubbing my leg in front of Roy Ngelale’s groin…he standing above me screaming, his arms in the air).

  The crazy thing is this: even with my terrible race, the electronic clocks had me beating Roy by like a hundredth of a second, which made him throw a pretty bad temper tantrum and threaten to kill me in our football game (coming this Friday!), which doesn’t really scare me (not like football scholarships scare me).

  Still, it was a terrible day.

  What did I get for winning two indoor track titles? A hamstring strain, an intensifying complex about running in front of college coaches, and a vaguely pornographic news photo, which was distributed all over the state of Wisconsin in the newspaper the next day (and was used against me the following week).

  And, I got this: while I was still at the meet, my hamstring man hurting, Gus called and called and called, and I didn’t return his calls so his messages got bitchier.

  “What part of call me now don’t you understand? Come on, Felton. CHOP-CHOP!”

  And then, I think, he started going super crazy, which seemed wrong at the time but, in retrospect, makes perfect sense.

  After the team got home, I went over to Cody’s house to eat some burgers and brats with everyone. (I did not enjoy this, as I’d stopped enjoying everything.) While we were all sitting outside Cody’s on those white plastic lawn chairs (fifty-five degrees, warm for March) and shooting the crap, my phone kept buzzing and buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, which is crazy. Gus called every minute for like twenty minutes—until I turned off my phone.

  “Who is blowing you up, man? Your mom?” Reese asked.

  “Nobody,” I said. I didn’t worry about Gus at all.

  Later that night, when I turned my phone on to call you, I had twenty-five new messages from Gus (all of them crazy—“You’re a butt munch, man!” etc.). While I was calling you, he called again, which sort of freaked me out, you know?

  And he called again while I was leaving you a message and again while I texted you to call me, which you didn’t, which began to seriously freak me out, because why weren’t you returning my texts or calls?

  Turns out, while Gus was calling to curse me out, you were talking over Germany with Ronald, right? You couldn’t call me because you were in “Serious Discussions about Your Future.”

  What happened to our future?

  I know. We’re just kids. Children…

  Gus didn’t stop calling until like eleven that night (when I turned off my phone again).

  I woke up Sunday morning thinking about him, feeling bad about him. He’s been my best friend my whole life. I called him to say sorry for not answering, sure he’d understand that I’d had a rough day.

  He answered and said, “You are dead to me, Felton Reinstein.” Then he hung up.

  I called back. He didn’t answer.

  I called again. Nothing.

  For some reason, right then, I remembered this time, this sunny day, when Gus and I were both in diapers, running through a sprinkler, our dads laughing so hard because our diapers got so huge and loaded with water that we looked like we had elephant privates and butts. Squish, squish. I can still feel how heavy that diaper was on me.

  “You are dead to me, Felton Reinstein.”

  I did feel sort of bad, but remember my head was in my ass, so I forgot about it.

  Holy crap. We’re already going down. That’s because Madison and Chicago are really close (in the air—doesn’t feel so close in the car, does it?).

  I have to find the gate for the Fort Myers flight at O’Hare when we land. O’Hare is supposedly the busiest airport on the planet. Nice. My ears hurt. Jerri told me to chew gum, but I forgot to get gum. My ears! Feels like my brain is trying to suck air through my dang ears.

  • • •

  You flew out of O’Hare on your way to Germany, I bet.

  This is what I want to say: I was a really messed-up person when you broke the news that you were going to Germany for the summer. Narcissus, head in butt. Gus called me dead. Hamstring man. Weird newspaper picture. It got worse too.

  Ow. Ears.

  I’m not making any excuses, Aleah. Okay?

  August 15th, 1:48 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport

  Yes, O’Hare is pretty big. I had to walk like six freaking miles, dragging my muy gordo backpack too. (Like my Spanish? I learned that in school!) It has a Hickory Farms Sausage and Cheese Gift Platter inside it, which is extremely heavy.

  A few minutes ago, I got lost and asked this bagel-selling lady for directions (she was all like, “What did you say?” and I was all like, “Uh, um, I’m looking for, uh, Terminal 2…uh…”) and she sent me down this escalator and through a long tunnel with neon lights all over the place and I sort of thought she was jerking me around, but when I got to the end of the tunnel, I was at the right terminal. Then I found the concourse right away because the signs made sense.

  Now I wish I would’ve bought a bagel from her because I’m hungry and the food smells are killing me softly with their delicious aromas and I had already established a speaking relationship with her, so it would have been easy to order a bagel. (“Uh…I would…uh…like one of those…uh…round things with the hole thing in the…uh…middle.”)

  I’ve got two hundred bucks in cash from Jerri. I’m rich! I could buy like twenty-two airport bagels!

  There are long lines everywhere. There are a million people and they’re all talking really loudly.

  I hate talking to people.

  Remember when you had to order for me when we biked to Country Kitchen that one time last summer because the waitress said I mumble?

  Oh God, I’m hungry.

  No. I will not eat this Hickory Farms Sausage and Cheese Gift Platter. It’s a gift.

 
Oh God, three-hour “layover.” Can I run sprints in the airport?

  Back in Bluffton, my teammates are about to practice, for crap’s sake. Cody and Karpinski were pissed when I told them I was leaving, but I’ll be back for the game Friday. I need to be there so Roy Ngelale can kill me. Ha-ha.

  Look at all of these people. Are they looking at me? Do they know I’m Felton Reinstein, Ass-Whupping Prep Football Player?

  Jesus, I hope not. I have to stop thinking like that. It drives me crazy.

  Shh. I’m a little jumpy.

  • • •

  Okay, Aleah, when you called that Sunday, I was already down. My hamstring hurt. I’d just seen that porny Ngelale picture on like ten thousand laughing Facebook pages. Gus had already told me I was dead to him. You hadn’t returned my calls the day before. Things are coming apart…things are breaking…

  When your number popped up on my phone, I was relieved. I wanted to tell you about the meet. I wanted to tell you about my leg. I wanted to make stupid jokes that you’d laugh at.

  Instead, you breathed really deep, then said you had some great news (but sounded all breathless and hesitant).

  “I’ve been asked to join this incredible youth orchestra in Berlin, Germany.”

  I can hear your voice saying it, Aleah. I can hear you, still.

  And for a second I felt proud and then I said, When?

  And you said, For the summer.

  And then I thought, It’s all coming apart.

  But I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t respond, because I was suddenly super mad because we’d been planning our summer in Bluffton the entire year, because exactly what I feared would happen was happening (everything breaks), and it felt like someone (you) had taken a sledgehammer high in the air and dropped it onto my gut.

  I shouldn’t have hung up on you. I shouldn’t have thrown my phone across the room and into my clothes hamper. Did I worry about how you felt while you were texting and calling and I wasn’t answering?

  No. I worried about me because my head was in my own rear (and also my heart hurt).

  Instead of talking to you, I called Karpinski and he picked me up and we went out to Walmart and got a sandwich—and that’s where I saw the actual newspaper with a huge picture of me bent over in Ngelale’s groinal area while he celebrated.

  “Whoa-ho-ho!” Karpinski said, because Taylor Olson, who works at Walmart, held it up in the air.

  “Oh crap, no!” I shouted.

  “Tasty.” Taylor nodded and smiled.

  Taylor is a douche sack.

  Then I got so mad at you, Aleah, for choosing Germany over me that I wanted to kick over the newspaper rack and punch Taylor, so Karpinski took me home.

  I don’t know why I blamed you. Probably my mental illness (narcissism).

  The rest of Sunday was filled with more Facebook posts about that picture and someone posting on a blog a Photoshopped re-do of the piece-of-crap picture that made it look like I was really doing something porny to Ngelale.

  It drove me into silence. That night I just lay in my bed, in the dark, with no phone, laptop, or TV on anywhere. I stared at the ceiling and thought, It’s breaking…I couldn’t speak to you and I couldn’t speak to Andrew who kept knocking on my door to ask me if I was okay.

  The reason I couldn’t call you back the next day? Someone blew up that stupid picture (the real porny one) to poster size, with the headline “Squirrel Nuts Blows” at the top.

  I should have known before I left home that something terrible was coming. After Jerri made us breakfast, Andrew said, “Hang in there today, Felton.”

  “Hang in where?” I asked, stuffing some burned scrambled eggs in my mouth.

  “You know, with Aleah…”

  “How do you know about Aleah?” I snapped at him.

  “She called me because you won’t talk to her.”

  “Great.”

  “And there’s a lot of chatter on the Internet.”

  “Chatter?” I said. “About what? Aleah?”

  “Uh…no. It’ll be okay, though,” he said, looking over his nerd glasses, acting all sad. “See you at the concert tonight, right?”

  “Okay. Gotcha. Don’t be such a freak, Andrew,” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He left the table without another word.

  Because my hamstring man was stiff and I was upset about you, I rode my bike to school instead of getting a ride with Cody like I usually do. The ride was meant to calm me down and loosen my leg. Didn’t work. And, when I got to school, I knew what Andrew was talking about. Someone had gotten there super early that Monday morning, and they’d plastered the blown-up porny picture all over the commons and up and down the halls. I’m serious. It was terrible, Aleah.

  “Oh. Shit,” I whispered, walking in.

  Like a hundred of my stupid jackassed classmates sat in the commons, whispering, covering their mouths, totally laughing. Gus was one of them. He sat there giggling with freaking Maddie O’Neill, who he’d just started going out with.

  I went over to them.

  “Did you guys see who did this?” I asked.

  Gus wouldn’t look at me.

  Maddie sort of sang, “Somebody doesn’t like you.”

  “Somebody?” I asked. My face got hot. I got dizzy. I thought: I’m going home, which is what I would’ve done when I was a little squirrel-nut kid who everybody picked on. (Run away! Run away!)

  Hmm. Actually, I ran away just this summer, last time I was in Florida.

  My second response: I will figure out who made these freaking pictures. I will hunt them down. I will beat them into a red mist. (Kill! Kill!)

  Maddie said, “It’s okay that you’re gay, Felton.”

  “Somebody is going to pay,” I said, and walked away.

  By second hour, the janitor had gone through and taken all the posters down, but I could still hear the laughing in the halls and in class, and my hands were trembling with rage (bombed a calc test). Then Reese and Karpinski both made stupid gay sex cracks when I got to chemistry. (Kill! Kill!) But, Karpinski also said, “Dude, let’s go to Steve’s and plan how you’re gonna get your revenge, man.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Freaking punk kids,” Reese said.

  “Punk kids?” I asked.

  “Gus and those guys.”

  “Gus?”

  “Of course, man,” Karpinski said. “Who else would do that shit to you? Dude calls me a honky (Gus still calls townie kids that, Aleah) and crap. He’s the only one of those dicks who isn’t afraid of me.”

  “Gus?” I said again.

  Gus. Gus…for a moment I wanted to wrap up in blankets and lie down in a corner somewhere. Gus.

  After school, while I was heading into the locker room for track practice, I saw Gus and Maddie laughing in the commons. Maddie waved at me and said, “Hi, Felton!” really sarcastically and then my guts just tightened up so much I thought I’d get sick and I sort of scuttled away. He and Maddie totally laughed behind me.

  Gus. Poor guy.

  I didn’t stay after track practice to do extra running and stretching like I usually do. My hamstring hurt. Plus, during track practice I moved from wanting to wrap in a blanket to very big anger. It wasn’t about the poster anymore. It was about Gus, who betrayed me! You’ve betrayed me! I hissed inside my monkey head.

  I will throw you in the Mississippi and watch you float away.

  After practice, I threw my bike in the back of Cody’s pickup truck and went to Steve’s Pizza with Karpinski, Cody, and Reese.

  We ordered pizza at 6:25 or so. (Something important was happening at 6:30, of course. Andrew’s concert. Crap.)

  While we waited for the pizza to come, Karpinski went over optio
ns for getting revenge on Gus for putting up the porny pic, even though there was no confirmation that Gus had done it.

  Karpinski suggested the following: slash Gus’s car tires, beat Gus up in the bathroom, break Gus’s car windows, kidnap Gus and throw him in a wet ditch, piss on Gus’s locker, tie Gus to a tree, etc.

  Reese nodded thoughtfully.

  I stared at Karpinski’s forehead, occasionally wincing (but still very, very angry at Gus and ready for some kind of action).

  Cody, who is a better human being, shook his head, no.

  The pizza came and we ate in silence for a while. Then Karpinski said, “Toilet paper, dudes. We’ll cover his whole house.”

  Reese said, “Yeah. That way no one gets hurt, but we send a message not to screw with Felton.”

  I liked the idea. Gus should know that I travel with a posse. “That actually makes sense,” I said.

  Then I thought: Gus’s house? My best friend’s house? The house where Aleah lived last summer when Gus was out of the country? The house my dad hung out in when he was alive? Trash it? Then I pictured Gus’s mom, Teresa, out there pulling wads of wet toilet paper out of her bushes, wondering why the world is such a terrible place.

  “Wait, I don’t know…” I said.

  “Of course you don’t,” Cody said.

  “I know,” Karpinski said. “I completely know.”

  “No. It probably wasn’t Gus. Felton and Gus have been buddies forever. Just relax.” Cody shook his head.

  “That’s bullshit,” Karpinski said, stuffing more pizza in his mouth. “He’s the only one, man.” Pizza popped out of his mouth.

  “Isn’t that Maddie chick one of Andrew’s friends?” Reese asked. “Would she really be mean to Felton?”

  It’s true, Aleah, Maddie, Gus’s girlfriend, and Andrew are friends.

  “You are so dang wussy,” Karpinski said, shaking his head at Reese, pizza bits firing onto the table.

  Maddie was a percussionist in Andrew’s middle-school orchestra last year, when she was in eighth grade. I pictured her whacking a kettledrum with her buzzed-up, bleached punk hair. I pictured Andrew whacking a drum next to Maddie, his hair flopping around. Then I remembered Andrew saying to me at breakfast, “See you at the concert tonight, right?”