Stupid Fast Read online

  Here’s this: The dorks aren’t retarded. They’re good. Andrew is good.

  I stopped chewing so I could hear them play better. Andrew is really, really good. Then I went downstairs to try to get some rest. It was so humid though.

  CHAPTER 8: I HAVE NO TALENT FOR DRUMMING—ANDREW DOES (I CARRIED AROUND A BAG OF ROCKS)

  Andrew started playing piano when he was seven because Jerri’s drumming teacher, Tito, said he had musical talent.

  It was August, and I’d just turned nine. Jerri had invited all these musty, woodchip-smelling people out to our house to drum in this big circle around our fire pit. At one point, the sun going down, the sky orange, Tito put a drum in front of me and said I should drum along, “Let it all out, little man,” but I’d had heart attacks at school all spring, and all those people drumming around the circle caused a vibration in my chest that scared the holy crap out of me, so I wouldn’t touch the drum. So Tito moved the drum in front of Andrew, and Andrew just started bobbing his little mop head and pounding along and all the woodchip-smelling people oooohed and ahhhhed, and Jerri clapped her hands over her mouth, she was so happy. The next week, he was in piano lessons.

  That night, Tito gave me a leather pouch full of polished rocks and crystals. He told me the rocks had special powers and I should hold them in my hands if I got scared, so I carried the leather pouch around and took the rocks out a couple of times at school that fall, but everybody made crap out of me for carrying around a “jewelry collection,” so the rocks didn’t work right.

  It wasn’t very long before Andrew’s piano teacher said that Andrew was his best student ever.

  Even though I couldn’t pull the rocks out at school, I carried them around in my pocket. I actually carried them with me almost every day through the last school year. After my Regionals disqualification, I held a crystal in my left hand for two days.

  Believing rocks have power is a lot like thinking your dad’s ghost is watching out for you.

  I carried them for years!

  Not anymore. They’re gone.

  Andrew got piano, and I got a bag of rocks? That didn’t work out.

  I don’t know. What do I know? Maybe Dad is watching?

  Yikes. That actually just scared me.

  ***

  Holy crap. It’s 1:51 a.m.

  Go!

  CHAPTER 9: THINGS BEGAN TO SERIOUSLY CHANGE AT THE POOL

  After an hour of sweating in the dark basement, I figured I’d better really do something with my day or else the summer would begin to seriously kill me. We don’t have air conditioning. Have I mentioned that it was really humid? Hot and moist like a good cake (but bad weather). My curly hair was getting really curly from the humidity, which I don’t like. I have what Jerri calls a “Jew-fro.” This, like my Schwinn Varsity and love for the Beatles, is a gift from my father (one Jerri obviously couldn’t burn in the fire).

  Upstairs, the kids were laughing.

  So I did it. I called Peter Yang. Peter doesn’t have a cell phone, and he has like a hundred brothers and sisters, all of whom are as boring or more boring than Peter, and I don’t like talking to any of them, so I was very pleased that Peter was the one who picked up. He sounded happy when he answered “Hello!”

  “Wassup, Peter?”

  He sounded less happy when he said, “Oh. Um. Hey, Felton. What’s happening?”

  “Not much, my man. Summertime, right? You must really be missing Gus, huh? I’m surprised you haven’t called me! Ha ha. You want to go hang or something?”

  “Um, I’m kind of busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Debate club.”

  “Aw, Jesus, Peter. It’s summer. There is no debate club.”

  “Well, we’re going to go to the pool together—me and the debaters—to build team cohesion.”

  “Okay. Sounds great. Can I come with?”

  “Well, I guess.”

  “Great, Peter. Fantastic. Can you pick me up?”

  “Uh, I have a full car.”

  “Fine. See you there, okay? I’ll ride my bike.”

  “Yeah, we’ll be there, Felton. See ya.”

  I went to sleep.

  At around noon, I got up, changed into my swimsuit, which was way too small for me, grabbed a towel from the closet, and then went upstairs to grab lunch before riding my bike to the pool. Instead of finding a crew of quiet super-geek orchestra freaks eating sandwiches, which is what I assumed I’d find, I only found Andrew sitting at the dining room table, picking at a piece of wheat bread, looking totally mopey. “Where’s your band of brothers, bro?” I asked.

  “Jerri told them they couldn’t stay for lunch.”

  “Really?” I was sort of dumfounded because Jerri loved it when Andrew’s dipshit pals were over.

  “She claims to have a migraine.”

  “That’s weird.”

  He pulled off his plastic nerd glasses.

  “I think it’s because you’re making her crazy, Felton.”

  I paused and squinted at him. Andrew looked sincerely sad.

  “Me? I don’t think so.”

  “Yes. You. You’re rude to her, and you’re lazy, and I think she’s had it.”

  “Shut up, Andrew,” I said.

  “She never tells my friends to go home. Why today?”

  “Maybe Jerri doesn’t have enough money to be feeding every last geek at Bluffton Middle School. That’s a lot to bear on a part-time crossing guard’s salary.”

  “We have plenty of money, and you know it. You…you…” Andrew’s face got really red, and he worked hard to say something.

  “What Andrew?” I asked. “What do you want to say?”

  “…you ass brain.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “You heard me,” he said.

  “Uh, I don’t know, Mr. Dickweed. You think we have money? Why do you think Jerri is making me do this paper route? We’re probably broke. We’re probably going on welfare. I’m likely the main breadwinner here. You see what I’m saying? Paper route money is floating the boat. I’m like your dad now. You should call me Dad.”

  Andrew’s cheeks flushed even hotter. His eyes went watery. He stood, looking like he wanted to punch me. Then he bit his cheek and said, “Why are you such a retard, Felton?”

  I paused for a moment and thought about killing Andrew. Then I thought about what he’d just asked me, why I am such a retard. It was a good question.

  “I don’t know,” I said. Then I left the house.

  Jerri was lying on a lawn chair out in the middle of the yard, her whole head covered up by a towel.

  “I’m going to the pool with Peter Yang,” I called.

  Jerri sat up, pulling the towel off her face, and said, “Oh, good. Good, Felton.” She didn’t actually sound good though. Crazy town.

  I got on my bike and rode toward the pool.

  ***

  What kicked off the big change that day? First, the voice in my head, which said this as I biked: You are causing everybody pain and suffering, you jerk. You cause Andrew to mope and to say ass brain and to stop playing music with his friends. You cause Jerri to call you names and stare at walls and cover her face up with towels and kick out Andrew’s friends because she has a migraine (which you caused).

  Shut up, brain! Shut up, voice! Jesus!

  What exactly did I do to make everybody suffer? What? I didn’t know.

  But I did. Gus was the only one who didn’t suffer around me. My family, what’s left of it, suffered. Why?

  I wasn’t a criminal. I’d only been in trouble once (bathroom stall breakdown, which was really Gus’s idea, although I heartily agreed with it and also did the deed). I didn’t fight or drink or do drugs or have sex of any kind or stay out too late or do anything even remotely approaching deviant. I just watched a lot of cable alone, and I slept a lot, but that hardly seemed a reason for my family to suffer.

  As I biked, I wondered if Jerri would feel better if I did get in trou
ble staying out late and having sex. Hey, look who’s a normal Suckville teen! Felton!!! I also wondered when it was I began to hate my teeny weenie brother Andrew. I felt sincere hate for him. Why? Sure, he’s a jerk, and he’s arrogant, and he’s a pain in my ass. But that’s no different than how it’s always been. I’ve never hated him. A few minutes earlier, back when he was mad at me about his friends, I had to escape him or I might have punched out his light bulb, which is definitely not the kind of trouble Jerri would want me to get in.

  Then I thought: I’ve always made her suffer, all the way back when I had heart attacks. Maybe I’m just old enough to see how much she hates me?

  At that moment, I got such a big gust of energy from my insides that I just absolutely let loose on my Schwinn Varsity. I tore down the road a million miles per hour, which is an exaggeration because nothing goes a million miles per hour. But what isn’t an exaggeration is this: I biked so damn fast I actually passed a car on the main road. The old man driving the car rolled down his window and cheered as I passed him. That was pretty damn cool.

  ***

  The second thing that kicked off the change was Peter Yang’s treachery.

  Let’s get this straight. I don’t love Peter Yang. I’m still not good with him. In fact, maybe he isn’t my friend at all anymore. Maybe he hasn’t been for a while.

  Last winter, I hung out with him a lot because we could all go out driving together. I think I enjoyed Peter’s company only because he had the car to drive Gus and me around in. Gus had a lot of funny stuff to say when driving around. Lots of observations. Gus was pure comedy gold in the car. Peter was not so interesting. He had nothing to say except “Come on, guys” when he thought Gus and me took things too far with our wry observations or whatever. Maybe I’ve never been that interested in him. I guess he’s been at every birthday party I’ve ever had in my entire life up until this year, and his dad and my dad were friends, etc. Maybe I’m just really mad. And maybe it was good to be mad because it helped kick off my change.

  I got to the pool, put my T-shirt and flip-flops in a basket, walked out to the deck in my much-too-small swimsuit, and saw that it was packed out there because of the high humidity and climbing temperature. I couldn’t see Peter Yang anywhere.

  Jess Withrow was there, though, in plain view, and so was Abby Sauter. They were all half-naked in their little bikinis, showing off on their towels. I almost lost my nerve but didn’t want to go home, so I kept moving. They whistled at me when I walked past. Abby said, “Looking hot, Felton Reinstein. Super hot.”

  Jess said, “Nice short shorts, fur ball.”

  God, they were unbelievably mean!

  I didn’t say a word back or even look at them. I was socially smart enough to know when no response was necessary. But for some stupid reason, I did look down to see if my privates were showing, which elicited a big howl from the two of them. How did they know where I was looking?

  I got a little dazed, a little unsteady in that heat. I had to calm down. I breathed deep and exhaled and, crap, accidentally said “Om shanti shanti shanti.” Abby and Jess rolled around their towels, laughing. I walked a little quicker.

  Some of Jerri’s life lessons (om shanti, for example) have been extremely detrimental to me socially.

  Okay. Steady. I was at the swimming pool for a reason. To hang with my old pal, my second best friend Peter Yang. And together we’d hang, apparently, with his new friends, the entire debate team, who I didn’t know or like. I walked and looked and walked. But Peter Yang and the debaters were nowhere to be found. All there was at the pool, it appeared, was a wall-to-wall carpet of honkies.

  Still, I lingered, walked, and looked, hopeful of finding Peter Yang.

  I walked completely around the main pool. The water reflected cool blue and refreshing, and the deck was really hot on my feet. Little kids jumped, splashed, shouted. They were having an excellent time. The lifeguards, who were all just chuckleheaded kids from the high school but liked to act like gods, stared down at me from behind their mirrored honky shades. I did not see Peter. I walked over to the slides and the little pool where moms park it with their toddlers. Still no Peter.

  I was getting pretty annoyed with the whole situation. Have I mentioned that I am not a big fan of Peter Yang?

  As I was taking a last turn around the pool, someone called “Hey, Reinstein. What’s up?”

  Okay, here’s the third thing that brought on my change.

  I looked toward the pool house and saw Cody Frederick, jock-o, jogging toward me. He was with Jason Reese, a large fellow, who I believed to be a bona fide chuckleheaded dumbass. My chest got tight.

  “Oh. Hey. What’s going on, Cody?” I said.

  Reese stared at me like a mountain gorilla.

  “I was going to call you,” Cody pulled off his sunglasses. He was sweaty. “You missed the first summer weights.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, even though I knew that. I didn’t want to lift weights.

  Reese nodded.

  “Yeah. I’m organizing passing drills too, after baseball practice on Wednesdays. Maybe add a day or two as the summer goes on. Think you could hit that?”

  “Why didn’t you invite me to passing drills?” Reese glared at Cody.

  “Because you’re a lineman, idiot. Jesus. You gonna be running pass routes?” Cody looked back at me. I could smell that smell of his. Vague pee. “What do you think, Reinstein? It would be cool to be in sync when the season starts, man.”

  “I see your point. Uh huh. Can you text me or something?”

  “What’s your digits?”

  As I was nervously giving Cody my cell number and he was plugging it into his phone, who should walk out of the pool house but that jerk Ken Johnson, fastest man in the state (midsized schools division) two years running. This year, he won in both the 100 meters and 200. (I should have been there to beat him.) His 100 meter time was faster than even all the big-school Milwaukee kids. (So? I could’ve taken him…maybe.) I was not happy to see Ken, as you can imagine. He’d just graduated and was on his way to Iowa on a football scholarship, and I, being a great optimist, of course, figured I’d never have to look at his stupid white-blond head again.

  “Uh, I gotta roll, man,” I said to Cody.

  Then Ken shouted, “Hey Rein Stone Squirrel Nut. Dad said you missed weights already. You gonna flake?”

  “Uhhhh,” I responded.

  Ken walked up and put his arm around Cody but kept looking at me.

  “Bullshit, dude. I keep telling everybody not to count on you. Why are you bothering with Rein Stone?” he asked Cody. “Rein Stone is no football player, for Christ’s sake. He’s a jumpy little squirrel nut, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know,” Cody looked down.

  “Yeah, Squirrel Nut,” that idiot Reese said.

  Right then and there I thought I would barf. I felt my insides twist and upheave into upchuck position, and my eyes bulged out of my head and I got instantly sweaty, and I opened my mouth and almost said “Om shanti” but actually said “Gotta go.” I took off jogging, with jerky Ken Johnson and chuckleheaded Jason Reese, horrible honkies both, laughing behind me.

  Okay. Here’s the change.

  Laughing at me? I mean, what the hell? Why? What did I do?

  Man. Piss me off. Seriously.

  What the hell are they laughing about?

  Piss. Me. Off.

  I was so mad, I almost barfed. This was new. Generally, I barfed (or almost barfed) from being scared, not mad.

  As I ran back to the pool house, I felt it. As I entered the building, I seriously felt it. I had to stop running. Once inside, I took two big steps and stopped cold right in the middle of the changing room, right in front of the little naked boys and their dads. No. Didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to barf. Didn’t want to bahhh like a sheep in front of these people. Not for any reason, mad or scared.

  I was so freaking mad!

  Piss. Me. Off.

  What in the hel
l are you laughing at?

  And I did not barf. Why? Because the voice in my head got huge. Instead of calling me an idiot, it called the honkies names. “You gonna let these weak-ass dipshits control your biology? You gonna let the pig pricks make you barf? You should make them barf. They should see you and barf and barf because they’re so scared. Don’t take this crap from honkies.”

  Yeah, voice! Yeah! That’s a good voice!

  I breathed deep and then walked the hell out of the pool house, slow and controlled, my head held high. I went right over to my bike to ride it home. Then I turned, just as slow and controlled, and walked back into the pool house almost hoping I’d see that jerk Ken Johnson again. Then I picked up my T-shirt and flip-flops from the basket, which I’d forgotten to do the first time I left the pool house. Then I left for real, got my Varsity, and rode it home, slow and angry, shaking my head slow, repeating this fine little mantra: “I’m gonna make you barf. I’m gonna make you barf. I’m gonna make you barf.” That’s a little different than om shanti shanti shanti, which is about peace, not terror. Oh hell no. “I’m gonna make you barf.” That’s not Jerri’s mantra.

  No peace, no justice. I’m gonna make you barf.

  Hey! Ho! I’m gonna make you barf!

  I, Felton Reinstein, was hot. Seriously hot. Boiling angry. Me, a good, very fast, potentially funny young man, with no naturally occurring ill intent toward anyone, had been completely mistreated forever. I’d had enough.

  Hell no! We won’t go! I’m gonna make you barf!

  I rode slow past dumb little houses and the ugly little golf course, simmering and steaming. I got to our drive and pedaled slow up the hill. When I made it to the garage, I stepped off my bike and let it drop right there.

  “Goddamn chuckleheaded honkies,” I said, pausing for effect, folding my arms across my chest.

  Jerri shouted from the garden, “Felton, Coach Johnson just called.”

  But then the voice in my head said something extremely important: “Wait. Wait. It’s not just the honkies. It’s not just fat ass Reese or that jerk Ken Johnson. What about Peter Yang?”