Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,31
abusive, Andrew?”
“I went to…I began to…” Andrew could barely get this out. “I played piano because I thought it would make her happy because it always makes her happy, and she told me to go make my crappy noise someplace else.”
“That’s bad,” I nodded at Andrew. It really was about the worst thing you could say to the poor kid.
I went inside, even though I didn’t want to. I found Jerri upstairs sitting on the couch with a wine bottle in front of her. She was staring out the picture window across the room.
“Um, hey, Jerri. Having some wine?”
She turned and looked at me.
“Felton, you look just like your father.”
“I’m six-one,” I said.
“Yeah, you are.”
“He was short. Remember?”
“Right.”
“Uh, you okay?”
“What do you think?”
“No.”
“Right again.”
“You really want that wine?” I asked.
“I do, but it makes me throw up, which isn’t really that great, Felton.”
“Did you drink wine before you went over to the Jenningses’ last night?”
Jerri looked out the window again. Then her cheeks began to tremble. She spoke out the window too, like she wasn’t talking to me at all.
“I haven’t had a decent conversation with a man in years,” she said.
“No. You have…Tito…”
“Don’t you bring up that ass.”
“Okay. You talk at the grocery store.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about!” she shouted. Then she started sobbing really hard, which was terrible.
“I don’t know what to do, Jerri.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Felton. You’re a damn kid.”
“I want to help.”
“It’s not your problem! It’s not your problem! You got that, kid?”
I stared at her.
“Please go away, Felton,” she said, sobbing.
So I did. I went downstairs. What was I supposed to do?
I could’ve called Grandma, but that didn’t occur to me.
CHAPTER 20: I REALLY DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO
Jerri was an only child. There were no aunts or uncles or cousins to call, which I only thought about recently because Cody Frederick seems to be related to about ten percent of everyone in Bluffton, so this kind of thing couldn’t have happened to him.
My dad, of course, was not around. His parents and sister didn’t call us or write us or probably even think about us.
Gus and his parents, who were the closest thing me and Jerri had to people who cared about us, were in Venezuela.
Jerri’s dad was dead.
Grandma Berba, Jerri’s mom, lived in Arizona, and she seemed to hate Jerri. She really did. Jerri had always pretty much said Grandma Berba hated her (and I took that to mean she hated me and Andrew too—why wouldn’t she hate us? Who wouldn’t hate us?).
I should have called her right away. I didn’t know.
Andrew is the one who suffered.
I’m sorry. I went about my business then. I mean, I tried.
3:21 a.m.
CHAPTER 21: I CAN CATCH A DAMN FOOTBALL
Andrew was still out in the garage. Jerri sat silent in the living room. I stretched in my bedroom.
My body still hurt, but it was time to get going. I had to meet Cody Frederick and the other backs and receivers for pass routes after baseball. It was 8 a.m. Baseball practice finished at 10 a.m. Even though I could get to the field in ten minutes, I knew it was time to get going.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asked when I entered the garage.
“I have passing drills,” I told him, getting on my bike.
“You’re leaving?” he asked. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want, I guess.”
He stared at me.
I left and biked up to Legion Field, where the baseball team was practicing, and Cody immediately shouted, “Yo, Reinstein! You’re a little early.”
Then all the honkies who had caused me pain and suffering for all those years started shouting, “Hey, Rein Stone! What’s up, Rein Stone? How’s it going, Rein Stone? Heard you dunked, Rein Stone.”
They used that “funny” name Rein Stone in a brand new way. It was like I heard it wrong all those years. They weren’t making fun of me. It was a good name. Rein Stone was like another word for pal or dude.
During practice, when somebody picked up a hard grounder or hit the ball hard, they looked up at me to see if I noticed, and I’d clap.
At one point, while the team was doing base-running drills, Coach Jones—a big fat ass gut buster with a country singer goatee who had once apparently pitched for the Chicago Cubs (not in the major leagues)—came over and said, “Can’t take you this year, Felton. Roster’s set. You practice a bit, and we’d sure be happy to