Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie

  Scott Hudson’s High School Survival Tips

  * Keep away from seniors.

  * Keep away from juniors.

  * It’s probably a good idea to avoid sophomores, too, since most of them seem to want revenge for what happened when they were freshmen.

  * Don’t ever kneel. Especially if there are big kids around.

  * Never wear a dorky hat. Especially if there are big kids around.

  * Don’t carry your books under your arm in a crowded hall.

  * Try to avoid the bus, even if it means catching a ride from a stranger with a chain saw.

  * If you’re friends with a girl in kindergarten, try to stay friends with her when you get older because otherwise she might forget she ever knew you, and she might get so drop-dead gorgeous you don’t have the guts to remind her that you once shared a pack of peanut-butter crackers.

  * If you’re going to break something, a nose is probably better than an arm, since it heals faster and it makes you look tough.

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  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Dutton Children’s Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2005

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

  11 13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14 12

  Copyright © David Lubar, 2005

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED

  THE DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Lubar, David.

  Sleeping freshmen never lie / by David Lubar.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While navigating his first year of high school and awaiting the birth of his new baby brother, Scott loses old friends and gains some unlikely new ones as he hones his skills as a writer.

  ISBN: 0-525-47311-4 (hc)

  [1. Self-confidence—Fiction.?2. Conduct of life—Fiction.?3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.?4. Authorship—Fiction.?5. Brothers—Fiction.?6. High schools—Fiction.

  7. Schools—Fiction.?8. Pennsylvania—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L96775S1 2005

  [Fic]—dc22 2004023067

  Speak ISBN 978-0-14-240780-6

  Designed by R. Lawrence Amari

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any

  responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  For Walter Mayes,

  a giant not just in size, but in heart and mind

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest thanks to Michele Coppola, who edited this book through three vastly different versions and talked me out of my foolhardy attempt to do the whole thing the wrong way; to Stephanie Owens Lurie, for taking a risk or two; to Doug Baldwin and Heather Baldwin, for honest and valuable feedback; to Andrea Mosbacher and Martin Karlow, for gentle and accurate copyediting; and to all those brilliant folks who tried to help me in the elusive hunt for the perfect title. And, oh yeah, thanks to my family, my cats, everyone who knows it’s okay to laugh while reading, and to all the good English teachers out there.

  Sleeping freshmen never lie

  {one}

  We plunged toward the future without a clue. Tonight, we were four sweaty guys heading home from a day spent shooting hoops. Tomorrow, I couldn’t even guess what would happen. All I knew for sure was that our lives were about to change.

  “Any idea what it’ll be like?” I asked. My mind kept flashing images of cattle. They shuffled up a ramp, unaware that their path led to a slaughterhouse.

  “A Tomb Raider movie,” Patrick said. “Or Indiana Jones.”

  “It’ll be the same as always,” Kyle said. “Boring and stupid.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Nope. Tomb Raider, for sure. We’ll get eaten alive if we aren’t careful, but we’ll be surrounded by amazing stuff.”

  “Right. Amazing stuff,” Mitch said. He rubbed his hands together as if he were about to dive into a juicy burger. “High school girls. Hundreds of ‘em.”

  “Like we have a chance with them,” Patrick said. “I heard the seniors snag all the hot girls.”

  “Not when I’m around.” Kyle slicked his hair back with his right hand, then made a fist and flexed his biceps. “Girls melt when I get near them.”

  “Mostly from the fumes,” Patrick said.

  “What about the classes?” Tasked as Kyle shoved Patrick toward the curb. “Think they’ll be hard?”

  “Who cares?” Mitch said. “You just have to show up and you’ll pass.”

  We reached my house. Second from the corner on Willow Street. The guys lived on the other side of the neighborhood. I realized that the next time we saw one another, we’d be freshmen at J. P. Zenger High.

  Freshmen. Unbelievable. Fresh? Definitely. Men? Not a clue. I turned toward my friends.

  “Bye,” Patrick said.

  Mitch grunted a farewell. Kyle’s hand twitched in a lazy wave. I wanted to say so
mething more meaningful than See ya later.

  There they were, right in front of me—Kyle, who I’d known since kindergarten, Patrick, who I’d met in second grade, and Mitch, who’d moved here in sixth grade. We’d done everything together, all through middle school. The perfect words were so obvious, I couldn’t help smiling as I spoke. “One for all and all for one.”

  The phrase was greeted with silence. Around us, I could hear the last crickets of summer chirping faintly. The crickets, too, seemed puzzled.

  “One for all …” I said again.

  Mitch frowned. “One for all what?”

  “Is that like a Marines slogan?” Kyle asked.

  “No, I think it’s on coins. It’s that Latin stuff, right?” Patrick said. “It’s E Pluto Pup something or other.”

  “It’s from The Three Musketeers,” I told them. “It’s a famous book.”

  Three pairs of eyes stared at me without a glimmer.

  “There’s a movie, too,” I said. “These guys stuck together no matter what.”

  Kyle looked around, tapped his thumb against the tip of each of his fingers, then said, “But there are four of us.”

  “Absolutely. That’s what’s so perfect. There were four Musketeers, too.”

  “That’s stupid,” Mitch said. “Somebody couldn’t count.”

  “Well, anyhow, let’s stick together tomorrow,” I said.

  “You bet,” Patrick said.

  “For sure,” Mitch said.

  “One for all and all for me,” Kyle said. He turned to go.

  “See ya later,” I called as they walked off.

  Mom and Dad were side by side on the living-room couch. The TV was on, but it didn’t look like they were watching it. They stopped talking when I walked in.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Hi, Scott,” Dad said. “You have fun with your friends?”

  “Yeah.” I noticed his eyes kept shifting from me to Mom. “Is something going on?”

  “Tomorrow’s the big day,” Mom said. “You must be excited.”

  Now I got it. They were stressed out from worrying whether they were headed for another disaster, which was one of the milder ways to describe my brother Bobby’s high school experience.

  “I’m sure I’ll do fine.” I could almost guarantee I wouldn’t skip history seventeen straight days in a row, get nabbed nine times for public displays of affection—with nine different girls—or pull off any of the other stunts that helped end Bobby’s high school experience half a year earlier than planned. “I’m really excited about school.”

  “Good.” Mom smiled with way more joy than the situation seemed to call for. “Do you want me to make you a lunch? I bought your favorite rolls.”

  “No.” I tried to hide my shudder as I imagined carrying a paper bag into the cafeteria. “Thanks.”

  “I think he’d rather buy lunch,” Dad said.

  I nodded, shot Dad a grateful look, and headed upstairs. I wanted to get my stuff ready, and they probably wanted to talk more about how there was nothing to worry about because I was different from Bobby.

  Man, was that ever true. Bobby was almost as tall as Dad, good with tools, and strong enough to carry two sacks of concrete at once. Eighty pounds on one shoulder. That sort of load would snap my spine. Girls chased him like he was some kind of movie star. He’d gotten all the good genes. I was a runt who had to think hard to remember which way to turn a wrench.

  I put my stuff in my backpack. Then I grabbed the books I’d bought last Saturday. Dad and I had gone to the flea market up near Stroudsburg. We go there at least once a month when it’s open. He looks for tools. I look for books. I’d snagged a whole stack of Robert Heinlein novels for two bucks, and a Field Guide to North American Game Fish for fifty cents. Dad had gotten some huge clamps for five bucks. That’s the weird thing about flea markets—books and tools seem to cost about the same amount per pound.

  I crammed the novels into one of my bookcases, then sat on my bed and leafed through the field guide, looking at the color photos of smallmouth bass and imagining landing a four pounder while wading in the Delaware.

  Before I went to sleep, I called Bobby at his apartment to see if I could get any advice from him about school. Which I guess was like asking General Custer for combat tips. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in.

  That night, I dreamed I was field-testing flamethrowers for the army. In a supermarket. I awoke to the smell of bacon.

  First day of high school.

  I couldn’t believe it was finally here. Dad had already left for work. Mom was sitting on a stool by the kitchen counter, reading a magazine. But as my nose had told me, she’d been hard at work creating breakfast. “Good morning,” she said. She slipped the magazine under the newspaper. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  Mom always made blueberry pancakes and bacon on the first day of school. As she loaded up my plate with enough protein and carbs to fuel a Mars mission, I glanced at the corner of the magazine where it stuck out from under the paper. Mom didn’t usually hide stuff. It was probably one of those supermarket things, with stories about aliens who looked like Elvis and kids who’d been raised in the desert by giant toads.

  Mom got herself a plate and joined me as I tried to make a dent in my stack. We didn’t talk much while we ate. She seemed to be a million miles away.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  The too-big smile reappeared. “I can still make you a lunch. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” I glanced at the clock. “Gotta go.” I grabbed my backpack and headed for the bus stop.

  I was the first one there. I should have brought a book to help kill the time. But that would immediately mark me as a real geek.

  Eventually, I heard a noise in the distance. “Hey, Scottie,” Mouth Kandeski shouted when he was still half a block away. “Whatcha think? High school. It’s the big time. We’re in high school. Man, that’s cool. That’s sooooo cool.”

  He dribbled a trail of words like a leaking milk carton as he closed the distance between us. My best guess is that he can only breathe when he’s talking.

  “Hi, Mouth,” I said when he reached me. His name’s Louden. Bad move on his parents’ part. He got called Loudmouth the moment he started school. It was shortened to Mouth soon after that. We didn’t hang out or anything, but I guess since I was one of the few kids on the planet who’d never screamed, “Shut up!” at him, he figured I was interested in what he had to say. I was more interested in wondering what would happen to him if I clamped a hand over his mouth. Maybe he’d swell up and explode. Maybe the top of his head would pop off, sending his dorky orange ball cap into orbit where it belonged. Maybe the words would shoot out of his butt with so much force his pants would rip.

  Left unclamped, Mouth had plenty more to discuss. “I’ll tell you, I can’t wait. This is awesome. I’m kinda nervous. Are you nervous? I mean, I’m not scared, or nothing, but just kinda nervous. You know, nervous isn’t the same as scared. It’s sort of like the buzz you get from lots of coffee. I drank eight cups, once. I started drinking coffee this summer. You drink coffee? It’s not bad if you put in enough sugar.”

  Past Mouth, I spotted more freshmen. Familiar faces from Tom Paine Middle School, looking like Easter eggs in their new clothes. Then one unfamiliar face. A goddess. An honest-to-goodness goddess. At the first sight of her, even from a distance, I felt like I’d been stabbed in the gut with an icicle. I wanted to gather branches and build a shrine, or slay a mastodon and offer her the finest pieces, fresh from the hunt.

  “Whoa, it’s Julia,” Mouth said, breaking the spell. “Hey, Julia, you look different.”

  Wow. Mouth was right. It was Julia Baskins. I’d known her most of my life, and I hadn’t recognized her. She was one of those kids who blend into the background. Like me, I guess. Well, the background had lost a blender. She was gorgeous.

  She’d always kept her dark brown hair in a braid. Now it was c
ut short and shaggy, with a couple of highlights. She was wearing makeup that did amazing things to her eyes, and a sweater and khakis that did amazing things to the rest of her. She looked taller, too.

  “You’re wearing contacts, right?” Mouth called to her. “I wanted contacts, but Mom said I had to wait until I got more responsible. Just because I let my braces get gunked up and had all those cavities. And lost my retainer three times. Well, really just twice. The other time, my dog ate it, so that doesn’t count. You have a dog?”

  Julia shook her head and managed to squeeze in the word “Cat.”

  “I don’t have a cat. I have an Airedale,” Mouth said. “He’s not purebred, but that’s what we think he mostly is.” He jammed his hand into his jacket pocket, fished around, and pulled out a broken Oreo. “Want a cookie?”

  “No, thanks.” Julia slipped away from Mouth and joined her friend Kelly Holbrook near the curb. I worked my way closer and tried to think of some excuse to talk to her.

  I never got the chance.

  {two}

  a hush fell over our cluster of freshmen, cloaking us with that same sense of dread that ancient civilizations must have felt during a solar eclipse. But we weren’t awestruck by a dragon eating the sun. We were facing a much less mythical danger.

  Older kids. An army of giants. I’d just spent a year in eighth grade, towering over the sixth and seventh graders. Okay—that was an exaggeration. I only towered over the short ones. But I wasn’t used to being at the bottom of the food chain. Or the wrong end of a growth spurt. I felt like the towel boy for the Sixers.

  As the loud, joking, shoving mob reached us, I slipped toward the back of the group and pretended to adjust my watch. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a kid kneel to tie his shoe. That earned him a kick in the rear from a member of the mob as it passed by.

  Mouth kept talking. Big mistake. The giants closed in on him, dumped the contents of his backpack onto the sidewalk, and threw his hat down a storm drain.

  “Hey, come on, guys,” Mouth said as his possessions spilled across the concrete. “Come on. Hey. Stop it. Come on, that’s not funny. We’re all classmates, right? We all go to the same school. Let’s be friends.”