Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,15

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?”

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