Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,13

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 trouble 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