Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie Read online

  If “music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,” then why are there so many hyperactive geeks in the band? I’d caught a ride to the game with them again. It wasn’t bad until the bus broke down on the way back. They all took out their instruments and started playing Sousa marches while we waited for the school to send another bus.

  I expected them to start thrusting woodwinds at me and screaming, “Join us!”

  The marches didn’t lift my spirits. I was still angry with myself for not saying hi to Julia that morning. I’d almost done it, but then I’d lost my nerve. I still couldn’t understand how Mouth could walk up to anyone in the world and just start talking.

  The whole day was pretty much a disaster. Until I started working on my article. That was fun. I borrowed an idea from English class. Last week, we’d read this story called “The Waltz,” by Dorothy Parker. Mr. Franka told us a lot about her. She was a master of sarcasm. Someone once asked her, “Do you mind if I smoke?” She replied, “I don’t care if you burn.”

  In “The Waltz,” the reader hears what this woman is thinking, and then what she’s saying. Nothing else. She’s talking to this guy who’s asked her to dance. Everything she says is polite, but then you find out what she thinks. And what she thinks is far from nice. It’s a brilliant story. Reading something like that for the first time is an amazing experience.

  Dorothy Parker also wrote book reviews. I should be so lucky.

  Saturday, I went to the garage for advice. Dad was under the ‘vette, so I had a conversation with his legs.

  “How long did it take before you finally talked to Mom?”

  “A couple months.”

  “How come it took so long?”

  “I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “So, what’d you say to her?”

  “Hi.”

  “That’s it. Just hi?”

  “Sure. It’s about the easiest thing there is to say. Especially when you’re nervous. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

  Monday morning, I decided it was time for that act of bravery. Julia was already at the bus stop. I figured I’d flash her the Hudson smile and say, “Hi, Julia,” then walk past. That’s all. Smile and say hi. It was a start.

  This time, my courage held. I moved toward her. Oh God, she was beautiful. I opened my mouth. And made sounds. The syllables shifted across several broken octaves, creating a noise that was somewhere between the creak of an ancient door hinge and the gasp an asthmatic kid makes when he gets punched in the gut.

  My voice was changing.

  Julia glanced toward me, frowning as if she was trying to make sense out of the noise. I forced my gaze straight ahead and sped past, praying that she didn’t realize the pathetic purpose of my croaking.

  “Even you can’t think this is a good idea.” I stood next to Kyle, shivering.

  “It’s just flurries,” he said. “No big deal.”

  “Suck it up, babies!” Mr. Cravutto shouted.

  There had to be some sort of state law against this. He got to stand around in a sweatsuit and a jacket, with his hands in his pockets, while we shivered and tried to “make our own heat.” On the other hand, if I froze to death, I wouldn’t have to run my failed conversation with Julia through my mind another six million times.

  After calisthenics, we played touch football. Now I knew why they called it a huddle. We all huddled together for warmth. Well, as much as guys can huddle.

  “This is crazy,” I said when we headed into the locker room.

  Kyle stared at me. “Hey, your voice is changing.”

  “I noticed.”

  Tuesday was Patrick’s last day. “I’ll come over for a while,” I told him when we were heading toward our buses.

  He shook his head. “Everything’s packed. We’re leaving as soon as I get home.”

  “So, like, you’re gone?”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m gone.”

  Across the lot, my bus was almost loaded. I knew the shouter wouldn’t wait for me. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said as I dashed off.

  “Right.” Patrick waved. “I’ll e-mail you when we get unpacked.”

  As I got on the bus, I realized I might never see him again.

  {sixteen}

  i happened to walk past Lee’s table at lunch. She had this book of Byron’s poems. I figured if anyone knew stuff about vampires, it would be her. “You like him?” I asked.

  “Big fan,” she said.

  “Do you know any vampire poem he wrote?”

  A couple of the girls at the table frowned at me with the same sort of annoyed look you’d give a horsefly approaching a bowl of potato salad. I figured I should leave. I really didn’t want to get into any sort of long conversation with her, anyhow. Before I could move, Lee grinned and started reciting lines of verse in a voice barely above a whisper:

  “But first, on earth as Vampire sent,

  Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:

  Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

  And suck the blood of all thy race;

  There from thy daughter, sister, wife,

  At midnight drain the stream of life;

  Yet loathe the banquet which perforce

  Must feed thy livid living corse …”

  I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. What an amazing poem. It was wonderfully creepy. As she finished the last line, she plucked a french fry from her tray and licked a glob of ketchup off the tip. There was a stud piercing her tongue. It was shaped like a tiny skull. Past her, the popular girls were completely ignoring us now. Great. I guess they’d lumped me in with Lee as somebody to avoid.

  “Corse means corpse, of course,” she said. “But you probably figured that out.”

  I glanced around to make sure nobody else was watching us talk. “Is that the whole poem?”

  “No way. It’s huge.”

  “What’s it called?”

  She told me the name. It sounded like “The Jawer.” I pointed at the book. “Is it in there?” I was dying to read the rest of it.

  “Nope. But I have it at home. Want me to bring it in?”

  I had this image of her handing me a solid black book with pins stuck in the cover. And maybe a bit of dried blood crusted on the pages. “No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Thanks anyhow.”

  When I got to our table, Kyle snickered and said, “Learning witchcraft from Weirdly?” That’s what everyone called her. Weird Lee.

  “Had to ask her about an algebra assignment,” I lied.

  Kyle made a kissing sound, then grabbed his lip and said, “Ouch. Those damn pins.”

  “Screw you.” I threw a bag of chips at him.

  “Thanks.” He opened them and crammed a handful in his mouth, munched for a while, then said, “They ever put in a metal detector, she’s not getting past the front door.”

  “They ever put in a fart detector, you’ll be standing outside, too.” I added a sound effect to drive home my point.

  Kyle threw the chips back at me, which was part of my crafty plan, except that half of them flew from the bag.

  The moment I got home, I tried to find the poem online, but I didn’t have a clue how to spell the title. I tried Jawer, Jour, Jore, and a bunch of other stuff. After a while I gave up. I couldn’t stay on the Internet too long. Our computer was really slow and it crashed all the time. About the only thing it was good for was writing. Before school started Dad said that we’d get a new computer for Christmas. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten.

  It was a miracle. We stayed inside for gym on Thursday.

  Lee wasn’t in school. Not that I paid all that much attention to stuff like that. Maybe I should have asked her to let me borrow that book. Or at least asked her to write down the title. It would be so cool to do a review of it. I could still hear the one line … And suck the blood of all thy race. I’d love to tell people about a book or a poem they didn’t know existed.

  I knew I’
d make a good reviewer. Mouth probably wouldn’t mind if I wrote one review sometime, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for a favor. If I let him do something nice for me, that would make him think we were friends. Not that I could ask him right now. Mouth was absent, too. He hadn’t been in school for a couple days. But that was no big surprise. All through middle school, he was out a lot. I had this image of him hooked up to a dictionary with an IV line, resupplying his word stream.

  Friday, in homeroom, they handed out our report cards. It wasn’t a card, actually. It was a big slip of paper. I didn’t even have to get it signed. I did okay. I got mostly in the eighties. Except I got a 95 in English. Since it was an honors class, they bumped it up by 10 percent to adjust for it being a harder class. It came out to a 105, which was really beyond strange for me. I’d even managed an 85 in Spanish, which was a miracle since I still hadn’t discovered the secret of communicating with Ms. de Gaulle.

  At lunch, I found out that Kyle got mostly in the seventies, and a 95 in gym. He was happy. “As long as I pass,” he said. I didn’t show him my grades. I figured he’d give me a hard time about making the honor roll. “I’ve got my penultimate game tonight,” I told him during lunch.

  “Your what?”

  “Next-to-last one. That’s what penultimate means.”

  “So why don’t you just say next to last?”

  “I like the way it sounds.”

  “You’re a total dweeb. You know that?”

  “I’ve heard rumors. But they’re unsubstantiated.”

  There was still no sign of Lee. Maybe she’d run off to become a poet. Or a grave digger. If that was true, the football team could have used her. They got buried that evening.

  Later, while I was working on my article, I was startled by a scream from Mom. I was halfway out of my chair before I realized it wasn’t a cry of terror or pain. By the time all my internal organs had settled back where they belonged, I’d identified it as a scream of delight.

  I went to the front door, where Mom had Bobby clutched in one of her death hugs.

  “Hey,” I said when she released him.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said.

  I didn’t get too close. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in at least a week. His clothes were dirty, and he smelled like the bottom of a hamper. I think he’d hitched here. But it was good to see him.

  Dad didn’t give him a hard time. He just said, “Welcome home.”

  I could hear Bobby playing his guitar half the night. He had the volume low. I didn’t mind. He plays really well. He even played in a band when he was in high school. But they all drifted apart.

  I hope I don’t just drift away after high school.

  Bobby’s return meant I was abandoned on Saturday. Mom and Dad were helping him find a cheap apartment. After I finished my homework, Kyle and I hung out at his house. I can’t remember the last time we did that. I’d been so busy since school started.

  “You heard from Patrick yet?” I asked.

  Kyle shook his head.

  “Me either.”

  “You won’t,” he said.

  “Sure I will.”

  “No way. He’s gone. Why would he bother staying in touch? It’s not like we’ll ever see him again.”

  I let it drop. I knew Kyle was wrong, but it wasn’t worth arguing about.

  The folks came back home about an hour after I did. “Any luck?”

  “Not yet,” Mom said. She got some ground beef from the fridge and started adding in all the magic ingredients that transform it into her amazing meat loaf. “There don’t seem to be many places available right now. There’s no rush. Bobby knows he can stay here as long as he wants. It’s his home.”

  On Monday, Lee came up to me in homeroom and held out a book. “Here. This should give you pleasant dreams.” Instead of her usual fishnet stuff, she was wearing a top with long black sleeves, but I noticed something on her wrists. At first, I thought it was cuffs from another shirt. Then I realized it was bandages. On both wrists.

  “Hey, spaceboy. Take the book. Duh?” She shoved it toward my face and I grabbed it.

  I could tell from the musty scent of leather that it was an old book. “I’ll be careful with it.” I still couldn’t tear my eyes away from the bandages.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “This?” she asked, raising her arms. “I did something stupid in the kitchen.” She glared at me as if daring me to say anything more.

  I thanked her again for the book, then went over to my seat.

  November 19

  I got this poem I’ve been dying to read. But I’m too creeped out to read it right now. I mean, it’s not the poem that’s creeping me out. Though I hope it’ll be spooky. It’s the person I got it from. Well, not her. But what I think she did. Okay—and her, too. A bit. Or a lot.

  I’m not sure how to talk about this. The thing is, sometimes kids do bad stuff to themselves. Some kids cut themselves. Some kids even try to kill themselves.

  I guess the ultimate survival tip is pretty simple: stay alive. The rest is just details. Think twice before you do anything permanent. And then think again. I don’t want to say anything more about it right now. It’s too creepy.

  Wait. I will say something. This is too important. And if you don’t listen to anything else I tell you, I hope you’ll listen now. No matter what you might hear about all these tragic figures, and the whole romantic image of the suffering artist, suicide is not cool. It’s not heroic. It’s not romantic. It’s like running away. Abandoning your family. And leaving someone else to clean up your mess. Only, it’s even worse, because once you go there, you can’t come back. And that would really suck.

  {seventeen}

  kyle got me in a headlock when I stepped off the bus.

  “Guess what?” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m wrestling.”

  “Obviously. Want me to wrestle back?”

  “No. I mean, I’m on the team. You should try out. It’s not too late.” He clamped down tighter on my neck. “I’ll put in a good word with the coach.”

  “Not a chance.” Some of Bobby’s friends were wrestlers, and I saw what they went through making weight. It was pretty brutal. Sweating. Starving. Spitting into a cup, for crying out loud. I mean, how much can spit weigh? And I definitely wasn’t enjoying my current position as a human pretzel. Especially since it put my nose way too close to Kyle’s armpit.

  “Well, you should go out for some sport,” Kyle said. He let go of my head and stepped back. “It’s a good way to fit in.”

  He had a point. It was pretty obvious that you got treated better if you were on a team. Even a losing team. Except there wasn’t anything I could go out for. Some kids were good at sports. Some stunk. And some were right in the middle. That’s where I was. I could shoot baskets okay when there was nobody in my face, but I was nowhere near good enough to play on a school team. Even if I grew six inches.

  It would be wonderful to be good at something. I mean, I was a good reader, but that wasn’t like being a good ballplayer. Actually, there was one thing I was really good at—being the youngest Hudson kid. I’d mastered the art. And now I was getting benched.

  After escaping Kyle’s headlock, I found myself the subject of an eyelock. Lee kept glancing over in homeroom, as if we shared some kind of secret. I felt like the guy you see in the beginning of just about every vampire movie—the first victim, who gets stalked during the opening credits. I avoided her gaze by taking out my notebook and making a list.

  Seven Reasons Why Scott Hudson

  Shouldn’t Join the Wrestling Team

  I really have no desire to find out in person what my small intestine looks like from the inside.

  I’d rather not have to learn to exist on a daily diet of three Saltines and a Slim Jim.

  Most of my joints only bend in one direction—and I’d like to keep it that way.

  I look ridiculo
us in tights.

  Two things get rubbed on the mat all the time—butts and faces. This can’t be good for my complexion.

  There will without doubt be some form of painful hazing for the new guys.

  Any activity that produces that much grunting should probably be performed in private.

  When we were leaving the room, Lee waited for me by the door. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “The poem. Like it?”

  “I didn’t read it yet.”

  “You obviously have your priorities out of order.” She shook her head as she spoke. I expected to hear a fair imitation of Christmas sleigh bells, but much to my surprise, this motion didn’t produce any jangling from all the dangling pieces of metal.

  “I guess.” I slipped away. But I had the book in my backpack. So I read the poem in study hall. The title was The Giaour. I didn’t have a clue what that meant. Didn’t matter. The poem was way beyond awesome. And way longer than I’d expected. It was more than thirty pages. The part Lee quoted was the best, but there were plenty of other amazing lines. I didn’t understand a lot of it. It was around two hundred years old, so some of the stuff Byron mentioned didn’t mean a thing to me. Like if I wrote about my favorite TV show, people two centuries from now might not have a clue what I was talking about. But it was still an amazing poem.

  November 22

  Happy Thanksgiving, Smelly. I wonder whether you’re currently as well developed as the average turkey? You’re probably not as smart. Or as attractive.

  Thanksgiving is one of the best holidays, because it’s all about food. This time next year, you’ll be sitting with us, eating ground-up turkey paste, or whatever it is they feed kids who don’t have a whole lot of teeth. The truth is, I’m not really looking forward to watching you eat. Then again, you can’t be that much messier than Aunt Zelda. With or without teeth. Maybe the two of you can share a plate. And a drop cloth.

  Dad and my uncles are watching football. Before we ate, they spent a lot of time in the garage, gazing at the ‘vette and making guy sounds. Mom and my aunts are sitting in the kitchen, exchanging stories about pregnancy and birth. From what I could tell, whoever experienced the greatest amount of pain for the longest period of time is the winner.