Stupid Fast Read online

  What? Peter Yang? Peter freaking Yang.

  “Honkies are not the only problem,” I shouted.

  “What?” Jerri called from the garden.

  I walked up and into the front door of the house, past Andrew plunking the piano like a robot, then down into the basement, where I called Peter’s house. Mrs. Yang answered with her Chinese accent.

  “Is Peter there?”

  “No. He went with Mindy to play the game.”

  “The game, huh? You tell him Felton called.”

  “Okay.”

  “You tell him he’s a damn jerk, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  And then Mrs. Yang hung up.

  That’s right, Mrs. Yang. The truth hurts.

  Then I didn’t really know what to do with myself, with all my anger.

  I turned on the TV, but nothing interesting was on. Then I got on my computer and emailed Gus:

  i got no use for peter yangs of world. no more peter yang. done. over. called his mom and canceled subscription.

  ***

  It took Gus about two hours to respond:

  way to go. we two pees in potty. zero friends between us.

  I don’t need bad friends, Gus. You got that?

  But by night, I felt really lonely, and the anger made me crazy.

  CHAPTER 10: I'D NEVER SEEN ANYONE DO ANYTHING THAT WELL, NOT EVEN ANDREW

  In some ways, the night that followed the pool day was kind of like tonight. I am listening to music like I did then. I can’t sleep (it is 2:13 a.m.!) like I couldn’t that night. But I’m not thrashing around. I broke a bunch of shit in my room that night.

  Yeah.

  The morning after I told off Peter Yang’s mom, I had a really hard time getting up for the paper route. Yeah, I’d spent the entire evening barricaded in my room, all emotional and homicidal, pacing, breaking old toys (poor Star Wars action figures), considering the things I had to do to feel good about the world or to destroy the world: get a driver’s license, drive to Mexico, etc. (or fire bottle rockets and Roman candles at Ken Johnson in his stupid car).

  I listened to my dad’s old CDs. (Andrew found them in a box in a closet a couple years ago—this was several years post-bonfire, and Jerri barely reacted to them.) Lots of Beatles but also some other stuff, like the Pixies and Nirvana and the Smiths and Sonic Youth and punk music like Minor Threat that nobody else even knows about really (except Jerri, of course, who said she never liked any of it). Andrew took all Dad’s classical CDs. I got all the rock ones. And a lot of it is angry-sounding, and I was angry, a Gus-less wonder adrift and abused. I liked Sonic Youth. It’s what Dad listened to in the Volvo after he ran up the Mound that time.

  Jerri came to my closed door at some point in the night, knocked loud, asked me to turn down the music, then shouted “You all right in there?”

  “Yes. Leave me alone.”

  “What’s that music? You having bad thoughts?”

  “No. Just need to be alone.”

  “I didn’t mean…You know…I thought you’d want to know that Coach Johnson called.”

  “Who?”

  “Coach Johnson called for you today, Felton.”

  “I don’t care about any Johnson. I don’t care about Coach. And I don’t give a shit about his stupid son, okay?”

  Jerri paused outside the door. I imagined her staring blankly at the wood.

  “Umm, do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m listening to music here!” I shouted, then cranked up the tunes. I guess she went away.

  Yes, the head football coach is Ken Johnson’s dad.

  Too much Johnson, man. Too much Johnson. “I’ll pound all you Johnsons!” I shouted. Then I pounded on my chest. Why the hell do they think you want to play football? the voice in my head said. What a bunch of idiots! Sonic Youth exploded from my little computer speakers. I glared and clenched my fists and looked in the mirror.

  It was truly exhausting to be so mad. Plus, I was awake until like 5 a.m. And, thus, I was really completely exhausted for the paper route the next morning. (I got up to go at 6:45—not enough sleep!) I was very late delivering. I didn’t get to Gus’s house until almost 7:30.

  The people who were living in there had the door open and the curtains were pulled. The living room had every light on, even though it was plenty light outside by that time, and the wood masks were staring out the window. I sort of zombie-walked up the stoop to drop the paper off. I heard a noise when I pulled the screen door open. And I couldn’t help it, my exhaustion left me without my natural fleeing defenses, so I sort of popped my head in to see what the noise was.

  The black girl in her white nightie was pulling herself up to Gus’s piano.

  Gus is a terrible piano player. Awful. He has no natural rhythm, and he is tone-deaf, and he can’t see the keys very well because his hair wad is in his face. He bangs and shouts and makes me laugh until I have a headache and want him to stop.

  This girl, who I now know so well, is not even slightly terrible. She’s got great rhythm and knows how melodies should sound. In fact, she is completely amazing.

  Stop. Listen to me. Completely utterly amazing.

  I watched. She paused, drew in a deep breath, then just exploded onto the keys, exploded into this classical music thing, which I would not normally like, but oh my holy shit.

  I stood there sort of tingling, I’m sure with my mouth hanging open, just staring at her like a total dork while she played. I recognized something in her. Maybe genius? The music was like a wave that hit me in Florida when we were visiting Dad’s parents right before he died. The music made me kind of cry. I’m sort of crying now. Seriously. What a dork I am. This girl, who I love, used every bit of the length of both her arms going up and down the keys. Then I heard this deep voice say “Can I help you?”

  I looked up, and there was this huge dad staring at me (Ronald).

  “Um, yes. Paperboy,” I mumbled.

  “Aleah plays well, doesn’t she?”

  “Holy crap,” I replied.

  “Well put,” he said.

  And then I nodded, handed him the paper, turned, and took off like a stupid-ass jackrabbit.

  She’s so good. She’s so good. She’s so good.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl in her nightie and her dad and being caught staring at her and how I was alone and how I can’t play piano or anything.

  You’re just jumpy. That’s all you are. Jumpy, jumpy, jumpy.

  I tore through the rest of the route, hurtling off my bike, dropping papers off at houses, then to the nursing home. Inside, old ladies were out of their rooms, heading to breakfast because I was late, and they called to me: “Help!”

  “Shut up, old ladies,” I told them. “I’ve got nothing. You’re just old.”

  CHAPTER 11: I FELT BETTER UNTIL JERRI DROPPED THE F-BOMB

  When I got home, Jerri was drinking coffee and reading an old magazine on the front stoop. It was already too hot out there, and she was sweating. It was obvious she was waiting for me. I tried to walk right past her, but she grabbed my arm and looked up into my eyes.

  “You’re getting home late,” she said.

  “Why did you make me take this stupid job?” I asked.

  “Did it feel good to listen to your dad’s music yesterday, Felton?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. I looked at her face, which was pale.

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Sure brought back some memories for me,” she said. “Not good memories.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “You were listening to some pretty angry music.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever wish you were with him, Felton?”

  “With him? What are you talking about?”

  “Somewhere not here?”

  “Jesus, Jerri.”

  I didn’t know what she meant at all, of course. So I tried to tell her what was up.

  “Listen. Jerri. I feel like a…Sometimes, I feel like
a trapped squirrel, okay? I’m a damn friendless squirrel nut that doesn’t know how to do anything.”

  “Squirrel nut?” Jerri raised her eyebrows for a moment. Stared at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to say really,” I told her.

  “Can I help you, Felton?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You wouldn’t eat dinner.”

  “I know that.”

  Jerri stared at me, squinted, then let go of my arm.

  “Go inside. I’ll make you a big omelet, okay?”

  “Okay.” I opened the door to go in.

  “You know I’m really trying,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked, stopping. “Why are you trying?” Why do honkies laugh? Why does Jerri need to try? Why can’t I do anything well?

  “You know I’m going to a therapist, Felton?” Jerri said.

  “No.”

  “That’s where I went on Friday. She’s worried about you too.”

  Oh. Oh. “Who? Who’s worried, Jerri?”

  “My therapist.”

  “Your therapist?” My stomach dropped.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You need a therapist, Jerri.” I didn’t want a therapist. I’ve had a therapist. My therapist caused me to whisper Gus’s name like he was my girlfriend when I was in fourth grade. My therapist made my heart attacks worse. I went inside and tried to slam the door, but it didn’t really slam.

  Andrew was already up doing what he does, singing off-key while playing one part of a song over and over on the piano. He calls the parts he plays over and over “phrases,” but I don’t hear anything like meaning in them or even a complete thought, which I know, from seventh grade English class, a phrase should have. Hearing him and seeing him and not feeling so good about myself anyway, I was mean, which I completely regret. I regret a lot, which maybe is unhealthy. At least he didn’t get I was being mean at that point.

  “Hey, Andrew,” I said. “You’re not that great at piano.”

  He stopped playing and sat up straight.

  “Why?”

  “I saw a girl play a hell of a lot better than you just this morning.”

  “How did you see her? She practices in the morning? Did she ask you inside?”

  I was confused.

  “Um, sort of.”

  Andrew swiveled around on the bench, eyes wide open.

  “Aleah Jennings,” he nodded.

  “Oh. Aleah Jennings. She’s black?”

  “Uh huh. She lives in Gus’s house. Aleah Jennings, Felton!”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s probably the best sixteen-year-old piano player in the universe. I read her blog.”

  “Aleah Jennings?”

  “She won the Chicago Competition last spring. I watched it on YouTube.”

  “I heard her.”

  “She makes me…She makes me want to be a zookeeper.”

  “What?”

  “She’s too good, Felton.”

  “What?”

  “I should be that good.”

  “You’re thirteen. She’s older.”

  “Or an astronaut or a veterinarian. I like animals. I’d be a good veterinarian. I don’t like how they smell.”

  “You’re a great piano player, Andrew. You’re probably the best thirteen-year-old piano player in the universe.”

  “Not even close.” A look of pure ice fell on Andrew’s little kid face, a look of pure unadulterated ambition. “But I’m going to be. I mean…I mean…I can’t believe she lives here. I made Jerri call over there yesterday. I made Jerri…I invited Aleah Jennings to come over for tea tomorrow. I had to invite…Jerri was mad because she’s not feeling herself lately but…”

  “Really?” I blushed at the thought. “She’s coming here?”

  “I hate Aleah Jennings!” Andrew cried. Then his face turned red and his lips trembled. Andrew’s whole body trembled. “I hate her! I hate her!” he cried.

  Wow. Freak. Out.

  I watched him for a moment, observed him. This went through my head:

  Who carries around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?

  Me.

  Why do I carry around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?

  Jerri.

  Who is crying like an insane baby because there’s a good piano player in town?

  Andrew.

  Whose mother makes him call her Jerri? Whose mother stares at him while he sleeps? Who found his dad hanging like a suit coat in the garage?

  Who wouldn’t be jumpy in these circumstances?

  Maybe no one?

  Why do the honkies laugh?

  Because you grew up thinking crazy was normal?

  ***

  Weird, huh? I’d never thought of it before. It never occurred to me that I am not the source of the problem, but maybe I’m, you know, just a branch of a big ugly tree. I mean, Andrew was sincerely flipping out. This is also weird. Watching Andrew freak, I kind of felt better.

  “I hate her!” Andrew screamed. He was pounding his fists on the piano bench. I stood back and stared at him, feeling my muscles relax.

  Jerri ran in the house.

  “What did you do to Andrew? You leave him alone, Felton! Just because you’re depressed doesn’t give you the right to hurt other…”

  “I hate her!” Andrew shouted.

  “You hate me?” Jerri cried.

  “No! Her!”

  “He hates her,” I nodded, earnestly.

  “Who is her?” Jerri cried.

  Just then my cell went off. It chimed and buzzed, and I flinched (because it was the first time it had gone off since Gus left town). I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the number. It wasn’t one I recognized. Because any conversation had to be better than the freak show happening in front of me, I said “Gotta take this one” and then jogged to the bathroom and shut the door. Jerri and Andrew shouted about “her” outside. I answered my phone. It was Cody Frederick.

  “Sorry Ken Johnson is such a jerk, Felton,” he said.

  Let me pause here and state the obvious: At that moment, life was quite confusing. The only person who had been nice to me in several weeks was Cody Frederick. Let me also say this: I am stupid fast. That is a fact. Is there another single positive thing that could’ve been said about me? I don’t really know. Although I wanted to be a comic, no one found me funny, which is a hindrance and thus not positive. Perhaps this: If you like hair, I have a lot of hair, and I was in the process of growing it very fast. So that could’ve been seen as positive on a very limited basis. Of course, the day before, two very beautiful (and, sorry, very mean) honky girls at the swimming pool had called me fur ball. No. Superior hair growth was not positive. Anything else? Not really. Suddenly, only two things made complete sense: Cody Frederick and my speed.

  I took a breath and said easily, “Ken Johnson has always been a jerk, man.”

  “He used to beat me up at little league practice,” Cody said.

  “Ass effing hole,” I said.

  Cody agreed.

  While Andrew and Jerri carried on outside the bathroom, Cody and I talked, and he asked me to go to weights with him the next day. I told him I would. We made a plan. And I didn’t even feel nervous about it. What did I have to lose? My friends? The stability of my family? I left the bathroom in time to see Jerri and Andrew hugging and sobbing and apologizing to each other.

  Then Jerri made breakfast. During breakfast, she stared at me without blinking. Her face was all pale, her eyes watery.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “You remind me of…You need to ask for help if you need it, Felton.”

  “I don’t need help, Jerri.”

  “Your dad committed suicide. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “That was over ten years ago. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Leave Jerri alone,” Andrew said.
>
  “I don’t know,” Jerri said. “You’re right. It’s my problem.”

  “You know, Jerri,” I said, “I’m just a small part of a much larger problem.” I really had no idea what I was talking about, but right then, something jarred loose.

  Jerri stared at me, clenched her jaw a couple of times, and then nodded slowly.

  “Right. You’re right, Felton.”

  “I am?” I asked.

  “Help me with dishes, Andrew,” she said really coldly, standing up.

  “Why do I have to? Why doesn’t Felton have to?”

  “He’s going through a time—a time of growth,” Jerri said, weirdly calm.

  “Please stop the freak show,” I whispered.

  “You watch your mouth,” Jerri snarled. She glared. She curled her lip. Then she said “Fucker” under her breath.

  I think that was the most scared I’d been in my life. At least until a couple of mornings later (and then until the end of July). Well, probably not if I think about it because I’ve seen some terrible stuff and also the heart attacks, but it was scary.

  Andrew stared at me with his mouth open. Jerri stood with her back to the table. I stood up and went downstairs.

  CHAPTER 12: MAKING A LIST, CHECKING IT TWICE

  Downstairs in my room, I pulled the leather pouch out of my sock drawer and almost pulled out shiny rocks (semiprecious stones from Brazil) and crystals to try to relax but then caught myself. Don’t do that. I jammed the pouch back in with the socks.

  Then I found my notebook where I always meant to take notes about life and whatnot, which I’d never done. I wanted to write something about how I wasn’t the problem. I wanted to write about Jerri, but I couldn’t. The notebook was completely empty. What are you supposed to write in these things? I emailed Gus:

  there is strong possibility that i’m nuts primarily because my mother and brother have made me nuts, not to speak of my dad, who was also likely nuts (or maybe had been driven nuts by my mom). it’s not my fault. do you keep a journal of your thoughts?

  Gus responded an hour or so later. Extremely out of character, he wrote like a million words, way too much to read. Clearly, he was bored out of his cabbage. Here is some of what he wrote:

  i own nothing but my thoughts (and also my pants)…you ever hear of hugo chavez? he’s el presidente and he hates america because we love money and mcdonalds (i want a quarter pounder) and he took away american tv so i cant watch anything i understand…i’m writing a book about spies who eat tacos and hide in large house plants…grandma moans and farts and swears at dad in spaniard HILARIOUS…use notebook to write to-do lists. dad does that…