Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,33

I’ll tell you who’s different. The rest of the world. Simon’s awesome. Except for how dumb people treat him.”

Stephanie passes her the water bottle, and as I watch Alix throw back her head and guzzle, I realize that even though she’s not afraid to hurl herself into fifteen-foot waves, even though she’s got a scary reputation for not putting up with anything from anyone, when it comes to her brother—and other things that I don’t know about yet—Alix feels helpless and frustrated, too.

With the moon rising, we begin the descent down Laurel Street, a steep hill treasured by the town’s radical skateboarders that brings us into the downtown area. It’s past rush hour, so traffic has slowed a little, but there are still plenty of people on the streets. That’s when I notice something. We’re on everyone’s radar. I’m not used to that. It’s subtle at first. For example, a middle-aged mom type stares at me with a puzzled look, like she can’t place where she knows me from and it’s going to drive her nuts until she figures it out. Then two girls in their twenties stop an intense conversation and drop their eyes when they pass us. A group of loud, obnoxious middle-school skateboarders go mute and step aside respectfully so we can pass through the center of them. All this could be coincidence. It could mean nothing.

But then, get this: a bald guy carrying a briefcase almost trips over the curb, that’s how hard he’s gawking at us. And what about the little girl throwing a fit in front of the Cookie Company because her mom won’t buy her a chocolate chip one? It’s like someone flips the Off switch on her. Suddenly she’s Little Miss Manners, holding her mom’s hand and giving us a look that says I’ll be good. Promise. And the cop who stops traffic to let us cross against the red light. And the homeless guy sitting on the corner who usually never says anything to anyone, never even makes eye contact. When we pass he stands up, salutes, and bows from the waist. And then …

Just ahead on the corner, I spot him. Brendon. A curl of his dark hair twists over one eye. He brushes it back with a hand. I’ve become a little fixated on this frequent gesture of his, because when he does it there’s a moment when he’s unguarded and I catch a glimpse of that other Brendon that I want to believe exists. A Brendon who isn’t like all his vile friends. A Brendon who will see something special in me. A Brendon I don’t have to hate. When he brushes aside his hair it’s like a curtain going up, but then it quickly comes back down.

At the same corner I also spot the big wall of Pox standing next to Brendon. On the other side of him, chugging from a giant-sized plastic bottle of soda, is blond, buzz-cut Gnat, who is half Pox’s height and weight but twice as hyper and just as mean.

It’s too late to cross to the opposite side of the street. There’s no way of avoiding them. All that power that had been surging through me? I feel it draining away, and the feeling is so strong and real that I glance to the ground, almost expecting to see a puddle of something on the concrete.

Why did we walk this way? Why do we have to deal with them? Why didn’t I do something with my hair before we left Raymond’s?

Gnat spots us first, lets loose with a big fart as soon as we’re close. “Why do my farts stink?” he asks no one in particular. “So deaf people can enjoy ’em, too.”

The light is red, so we’re forced to stand there as Gnat chokes with hysterical laughter at his own lame joke. Pox then makes a big show of crumpling an empty Cheetos bag and tossing it on the ground. Bait for Stephanie. Don’t take it, I plead silently. Don’t lecture him about the sin of littering. She mutters disapproval. He puts his hand to his ear, egging her on to scold him aloud so he can make fun of her even more. Radiating silent tension, she picks up the bag and lobs it into the nearby garbage can.

“Two points for the cousin of the monkey,” Pox says.

More Stephanie bait, and this time she takes the whole thing. “Pox, we’re all descended from monkeys. And considering your intelligence, it’s the monkeys