Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie (17 page)

Wesley leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “Hop in.”

I figured he was talking to someone else, so I didn’t move. But he looked straight at me and said it again.

I got in. He’s not the sort of person you say “No, thanks” to. We shot away from the curb before I could even buckle my seat belt.

Behind us, I heard Mouth calling, “Hey, can I get a ride?”

When we reached the parking lot, Wesley hopped right out, said, “Later,” and headed into the building.

Inside, I noticed that Lee had a bunch of rock stars on her locker. All the ones I recognized were dead. Underneath, she’d written
Only the young die good
.

I nodded at her in the hallway. She stared at me without nodding back. I thought about putting a picture of Beethoven on my locker. He was the most famous dead musician I could think of.

Monday morning, Wesley picked me up again. But he stopped to get coffee at the diner on Eighth Street, and have a couple cigarettes. We got to school a half hour late. And I smelled like smoke. Wesley gave me a ride home after detention. I miss getting smacked on the head. At least it’s quick, and has never been linked to lung cancer.

Tuesday, I got to the bus stop as late as possible so I’d miss Wesley. There was a new kid in my seat. A big new kid. The driver started shouting, “Take a seat! You’re holding us up!” I had to sit in the back. With the felons. By the time I got to school, I’d loaned all my lunch money to my seat mates. And my calculator. At least they didn’t take my sneakers.

I miss riding with Wesley.

When I got the paper, there was a headline saying
big shake-up on student council
. Wow. I never thought I’d make the front page. I started reading the article. Fortunately, there was enough noise around me to drown out the swearword I shouted when I finished the first sentence. It seems I wasn’t the only freshman who’d decided that the
council wasn’t a lot of fun. The president and vice president had quit. Which meant that the new freshman-class president was the person who’d gotten the next highest number of votes. Julia. Madam President.

That wasn’t the only change. We had a different teacher in Spanish. Mr. Kamber. I guess Ms. de Gaulle had gone back to France. Or maybe to Madrid, to confuse the locals. I thought my worries were over until Mr. Kamber opened his mouth. His accent was so thick, it was like listening to someone speak backward. And he was chewing gum. From the few words I could understand, I was eventually able to figure out that he was from Australia.

After he’d told us about himself, he started the lesson. It went like this:

Mr. Kamber said something that might be Spanish, like “
Ramblah pasten tew eznokulacha
.”

One of the kids in the class said, “I didn’t understand that.”

Mr. Kamber shrugged and said, “
Nwarries, might
.”

And it continued.

“
Tunko qweb mis decoofaloocha por abanki
?”

“
Huh? I don’t get it
.”

“
Nwarries, might. Echefolaka si mwarble docho
.”

“What? I didn’t understand that.”

“
Nwarries, might
.”

After I’d heard
Nwarries, might
a half-dozen times, I finally figured out he was saying, “No worries, mate,” which I guess is Australian for, “You’re screwed and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

I miss Ms. de Gaulle.

Wednesday morning, I showed up early enough to catch a ride with Wesley. When he pulled away from the curb, I said, “You going straight to school?”

He grinned at me. “Want to go somewhere? I’m cool with that.”

“No. That’s not what I meant. I need to be on time.”

He stared at me. Which made me even more nervous because he was still driving. My reluctance to lie vanished. “I’ve been late so much, I’m already in big trouble. One more time, and they might throw me out.”

“I hear you,” Wesley said. He stomped on the gas. Tires squealed. I was pushed back against the seat as the roar of eight cylinders blasted my ears and a fog of burned tire particles coated my lungs. I think I’ll always be able to look back at that moment as the exact instant when I knew for sure I had no desire to be an astronaut.

“There’s lots of time,” I shouted, forcing the words out against the pressure of acceleration.

I doubt he heard me. He was too busy taking a turn on two wheels. Which must be even harder when you steer with one hand.

Wesley screeched to a halt in front of the school. “Sure you don’t want to grab some coffee? Nothing goes on during first period anyhow. Or second. Teachers aren’t awake yet.”

“Thanks, but I’d better get inside.”

“Whatever.” He peeled away, leaving me to wonder whether, instead of gas money, I should be offering him tire money.

O
nce upon a time, well, actually it was today, I was sitting in English class.

“We can break writing up in various ways,” Mr. Franka said. “Even though some things aren’t meant to be broken. However, the board of education wants to make sure you all know certain concepts for testing purposes. So today we’ll look at four types of prose. You’ll be tested on this eventually, and probably endlessly.”

I sat and listened as he explained about narrative writing. That was one of the most common kinds. It told a story.

When Mr. Franka finished that part of the lecture, he paused for a moment, sitting on the edge of the large metal desk that was wedged on a slant in the left corner of the room, beneath the drooping glory of the flag. “Who can name another type of writing?” he asked.

I raised my arm, and noticed with interest how the dust particles danced in a golden light beam coming through the window.

“Yes, Scott?” Mr. Franka said, pointing toward me with a chalk-stained finger.

“Descriptive?” I asked in a voice that was tinged with both enthusiasm and a slight shadow of uncertainty.

“Right.” He nodded. “As I mentioned, it is important for you to learn these distinctions. You’ll be tested on them. It might not be as much fun as reading novels, but if you don’t do well on the tests, it can affect the rest of your education. So I urge you to pay attention. Now, who can name another type of prose?”

He called on Julia, who said, “Persuasive?”

“Correct.” Mr. Franka then fulfilled his role as teacher, which of course required that he inform and educate us. He explained that beyond narrative, descriptive, and persuasive writing, there was another sort. Expository writing laid out facts.

“And there you have it,” he said. “Though you’ll never encounter all four in the same place.”

First day of midterms. It was hard to believe the year was half over. There weren’t a lot of kids on the bus Thursday morning. We didn’t have to come in until it was time for our tests. That was third period for me, but I didn’t want to hike into town, so I took the school bus. Being early wasn’t a problem. I just hung out in the library and studied. I didn’t even see Wesley drive past the bus stop. Maybe he skipped midterms.

The tests weren’t all that bad, but I felt kind of fried. I had English, Spanish, and chemistry. Tomorrow, I’d have history, life skills, and algebra. But then there’d be a long weekend.
We had Monday off for Martin Luther King Day. No basketball games or wrestling meets during midterms, either. Naturally, I had a rehearsal scheduled for Monday morning. It was so thoughtful the way Mr. Perchal made sure practice didn’t interfere with my schedule.

That night, Wayne and Charley stopped by the house. They’re two of Bobby’s old friends from his band. They’d been up in Boston, playing in small clubs. But the third guy in their group had been a real jerk, so they broke up. Mom invited them to stay for dinner. Afterward, I hung out with them for a bit in Bobby’s room while they played music together.

“We’re heading to Nashville,” Wayne told Bobby.

“No more small time,” Charley said. “We’re going where the action is. You should come.”

“I’m broke,” Bobby said.

Charley sighed. “I’d spot you some money, but we’re pretty broke, too. Maybe you can join us when you get some cash.”

“Maybe,” Bobby said.

I could see he was tempted. As for saving up some money, that was going to be kind of tough since he still hadn’t found a job. Even so, he should have gone with them. It’s great if you can make a living doing something you’re really good at.

I told him that after they’d left.

“It’s just too much of a long shot,” he said. “I’d love to get the band back together, but what’s the point? Besides, I’m tired of wandering around.”

I could hear him pacing in his room all night.

• • •

The paper had come out on Wednesday because of the holiday. I looked through it in homeroom, even though I didn’t have an article in it. That is, I thought I didn’t. But there it was, on page 3—“A Football Feast,” by Scott Hudson. Hot dog references and all. They’d used boldface for the players’ names. And decorated the whole thing with clip-art drawings of food. Oh, my God.

This was no time to wonder how it got printed. This was the time to get as far away from the football team as possible. I got permission to go to the nurse’s office. “You’re pale and sweating,” she said. No kidding.

The nurse called Mom, who picked me up. I talked Mom out of taking me to the doctor. I told her I just wanted to go home and go to bed. I spent the morning imagining a million variations of my death at the hands of enraged football players.

That afternoon, I called Kyle to check on things. “Did Vernon see the article?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s pissed. Big-time.”

“Can you talk to him? Explain it was just a joke.”

“No way,” Kyle said. “I’m not getting him mad at me. One of the guys called him ‘wiener boy,’ and Vernon decked him.”

A couple minutes later, the phone rang. It was Mouth. “Hey, Scotty, I didn’t see you in school. I heard you went home sick. So maybe you don’t know about this. But remember that great article you wrote? You know, the really funny one about the snacks.”

“Uh-huh …”

“I made a photocopy for myself after the meeting. I kept
waiting for them to run it since it was so funny and everybody laughed when you showed it around at the meeting, but I guess you never turned it in to Mandy. And then there was all this space in the paper since nothing much is going on because of midterms. And you didn’t have a new article. So I had a great idea. Which I guess you don’t know about. Anyhow, I gave a copy to Mandy. Isn’t that cool? It’s too good not to share. I wish you’d seen it when it came out. It looks great. We put the players’ names in bold so they could find themselves more easily. That was my idea. Don’t worry. You didn’t miss anything. I saved you a copy.”

“Mouth,” I said.

“What?”

“You’re an idiot.”

He laughed. “Yeah. I know. So, do you want me to drop off a copy for you, or do you think you’ll be back in school soon? The last time I was out, I missed five days. Boy, the homework piles up. You think you’ll be out long? Like I said, I can drop off a copy for you.”

I told him I’d get a copy. I didn’t bother explaining that I’d already seen it. Or that he’d doomed me.

I managed to slink around for part of the morning without running into Vernon. But I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever.
I stopped at my locker right before fourth period. Lee had stuck a note there in her distinct handwriting. All it said was
You are what you eat. So what’s eating you
? I guess she’d read my article.

That’s when Vernon caught up with me. Along with three of his buddies. Together, they probably had about the same mass as a small car.

“Hudson?” he asked.

I nodded. At the moment, I didn’t think I was capable of producing any sort of sounds that would resemble words. At least, not out of my mouth. My butt felt like it was getting ready to issue a cry for help.

Vernon grabbed my shirt in one fist. His knuckles looked like walnuts. “You write for the school paper?”

As I nodded again, I could feel his fist tighten. At least it would be over soon. He’d punch the crap out of me—maybe all 90 percent—and in a mere five or six months I’d be as good as new, except for a couple scars, some false teeth, and an inability to remember my name or hold a conversation. On the bright side, I’d probably be able to sit through history class without fidgeting.

He curled his other hand into a fist. Behind him, his friends pulled closer. I felt like I was getting a tour of Mount Rushmore.

“Hey, Scott. What’s up?”

I looked over to my right.

“Everything okay?” Wesley asked.

Instead of waiting for me to answer, he shifted his eyes
toward Vernon. I felt the grip loosen on my shirt, like Vernon had been hit by one of those blowgun darts that paralyzes all your muscles. Wesley kept staring. Vernon let go and backed up a step.

“I got that stripe painted on the car yesterday,” Wesley said. He was still staring at Vernon, but talking to me. “Come see.”

The bell rang for fourth period, but I didn’t care. I was just happy that all of my organs were still inside my body where they belonged. I followed Wesley into the parking lot and admired the bright red racing stripe painted on the side of his Mustang. I’d never seen a more beautiful work of art.

“Very nice,” I said. “It’s really very … uh … straight.”

He nodded.