Stu Truly Page 2

  My mother let out a sigh and headed back downstairs with the tray. “White bread coming up, Your Highness.”

  The next day, Ben was waiting for me when I got to school.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Lucky. You got to stay home for a day.”

  “Yeah, lucky.”

  “At least you don’t have to do your oral report in history today.” Ben lowered his voice. “You won’t believe what I have to tell you.”

  “Does your dad have that foot fungus again? My mom burned the last pair of socks I wore to your house.”

  “No,” Ben said. “Better.”

  “Better than foot fungus?”

  Ben giggled. He can giggle like a girl. And he appreciates when I point that out.

  “Shut up. My dad bought Death Intruders 4.”

  “Really? That’s awesome! Can I come over?”

  “Duh, that’s why I’m telling you.”

  Having something like Death Intruders 4 to keep me distracted was the best way to avoid thinking about something else that kept making my palms sweaty. I almost didn’t notice Becca the rest of the day, except when I glanced over to see if perhaps she’d turned into an alien while I was gone. Unfortunately, she hadn’t.

  After school, Ben and I half walked, half ran to his house. Fighting zombies has always relaxed me. Even when they were trying to eat my brain for the umpteenth time. If only zombies walked the real earth, I’d be a lot calmer. Any worries that had dogged me the day before were quickly forgotten amid the simple pleasure of roaming about with a chain saw in a post-apocalyptic zombie world. By the way, post-

  apocalyptic is a fancy word for a place like Disneyland but with better rides and shorter lines.

  Unfortunately, the moment I left Ben’s house that evening, my troubles returned. I had not gone more than half a block when I ran into Becca. Ben had neglected to tell me Becca lived on his street. A best friend should know better than to keep something like that secret.

  Becca waved. “Hi, Stu!”

  The last image from my daydream sprang to mind. My heart thundered like it was a zombie warlord preparing to burst from my chest.

  “Hi, Becca,” I squeaked.

  Becca fluttered her eyes just as she had after our escape into the woods. “Are you okay?”

  My face grew hot. Was I okay? How was I supposed to know? The zombie warlord didn’t think so. He was beating on my rib cage like an undead jackhammer. I forced my eyes to the ground. “Yeah, fine. Great. Good. Never b-better,” I stammered.

  Becca giggled. “That’s good. I think.”

  She turned and fell in step with me as I tried to keep both feet moving. “Do you like it here?” Becca asked.

  The question caught me off guard. “Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. “I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

  Becca kicked a rock. “That must be nice. We’ve moved every two years my whole life.”

  I imagined moving to new places all the time. The zombie warlord let out a groan and took a seat. “Must be hard making new friends all the time.”

  “Yeah.” Becca kicked the rock again. It just missed my kneecap.

  “Probably would be easier if you didn’t try to kill them.” I kicked the rock back. It bounced off her shoe. “Oops, sorry.”

  “And I thought I was the killer around here,” she quipped coolly.

  I let out a snort, and not the kind of snort you make when you’re trying to blow a penny back out one nostril. This was the surprised kind of snort you make when you’ve just discovered girls can be funny.

  I grinned. “I’ve killed a few in my day. The town used to be a lot bigger.”

  Becca stopped as we reached the corner. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  I risked meeting her glance. “See you tomorrow.”

  She turned and headed back in the direction we’d come, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

  I replayed our conversation over and over in my mind as I walked home. There wasn’t really a lot to replay, but the more I did, the more each moment held a life of its own. The way her wrist shook when she waved hello. The slightly upturned curve of her lips when she spoke. How her eyes grew larger as she listened. I had been best friends with Ben my whole life, yet I couldn’t recall one feature of his face. Why? I didn’t have an answer.

  The next day at lunch, I made the mistake of sitting at the same table with Ben. Not that this was unusual. The unusual part was that Ben was sitting at a table full of girls. As I walked up, he and Kirsten, a girl from his English class, were having a deep discussion about reptiles.

  “There’s a guy in Ripley’s Believe It or Not,” Ben was explaining, “who had his tongue surgically altered so it looks like a snake’s.”

  “Ooh,” said Kirsten.

  “And he had his body tattooed to look like scales.”

  Kirsten leaned in. “My grandmother’s boyfriend has a lizard that rides around on his shoulder, even when they go to the movies.”

  Ben dropped his half-eaten sandwich. “No way. That’s so cool. I want a Gila monster I can walk on a leash.”

  I sat down next to Ben. Across the table, I noticed a cup of yogurt, a salad, and a bag of something that looked like dried peas covered in red pepper. I looked up to find Becca munching on a handful of the peas.

  “Hey, Stu,” she said, holding out a pea in her hand. “Ever had Joe’s Smokin’ Peas? They’re really good.”

  I took the pea and held it between my finger and thumb. “Looks good,” I lied. I put the pea in my mouth. It felt as hard as a piece of gravel. Flakes of red pepper latched onto my tongue like biting fire ants. I gulped it down against my will. It left a trail of fire all the way to my stomach. “Mmm, tasty,” I choked out.

  “I love them,” Becca replied. “Better than candy.”

  Comparing peas to candy was like comparing school to vacation. The two shouldn’t even be used in the same sentence. I jammed a hand into my lunch bag and discovered a leftover pork chop, apple slices, and a hard-boiled egg. The apple slices were for show, but the rest of it was pretty much a perfect meal. And then I looked at the yogurt, salad, and peas of fiery death across from me. I was now a vegetarian. Or so Becca thought. I let go of the pork chop and pulled out the apple slices. “Want one?”

  “Oh, those look good.” Becca took a slice and bit off a dainty piece.

  Ben would’ve shoved the whole thing in his mouth, bag and all. Instead, I heard him still discussing reptiles with Kirsten. “I like Gila monsters because they’re the only venomous lizard native to the United States.”

  “Really?” Kirsten replied, her attention locked on Ben. I had never seen anyone’s attention locked on Ben before, not even mine—and I was his best friend. Something seemed out of place.

  “Yeah,” he continued, “they live in the southwest and can eat just about anything, even horses and stuff.” Strangely, Ben’s head appeared to be swelling larger. I rubbed my eyes. It had to be the cafeteria lighting. His head couldn’t get any bigger. He was like one of the dwarves from The Hobbit. He once tipped over while watching a beetle crawl between his feet.

  “What else did you bring?”

  I looked up to find Becca staring at my lunch bag. “What else did I bring?” I peeked inside at the remaining contents. “Uh, well, I have a—a—” Was a hard-boiled egg vegetarian? I couldn’t remember. “Actually my mom gave me money to buy lunch,” I said, staring down at the brown paper bag clutched in my hands.

  Becca’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Oh . . . I didn’t know they had any vegetarian entrée options.”

  I looked up at the cafeteria reader board. Today’s menu: Hamburger or chicken strips with french fries.

  The zombie warlord in my chest woke up and began pounding to get out. I very much wanted to free him so he could find someone else’s chest to pound on and leave me to die in peace. Neither of us got what we wanted.

  I rolled the top of my lunch bag down tightly and got up. �
�Excuse me, I’m going to go buy some milk.” I then turned and made a beeline for the exit. Once outside, I ran to the boys’ room and locked myself in a stall.

  In case you’ve ever wondered, this is not a good place to eat lunch. Unless there is a girl in the cafeteria who thinks you are vegetarian—in which case, a stall in the boys’ room is a perfect place to eat lunch. By holding my nose with one hand and feeding myself with the other, I was able to get most of my pork chop down. The hard-boiled egg was a lost cause. It went in the trash along with the apple slices.

  For the remainder of lunch, I hunkered down in the stall and tried to ignore the thought of what boys normally do in the bathroom, none of which made keeping lunch down any easier. By the time the bell rang for class, I was a deep shade of green. With what little dignity remained, I staggered from the boys’ room and slumped my way to history class.

  I should’ve stayed in the bathroom.

  History is my least-favorite subject. Not because I dislike learning about dead people. (Since I began playing Death Intruders, I’ve become quite obsessed with the dead.) But because I’m stuck sitting next to Jackson. Not only is he tall for his age, he’s the only guy I know with an actual chin hair. The way he strokes it, you’d think there was a gerbil attached to his face. To make matters worse, he goes around in muscle shirts. Just because he actually has muscles doesn’t mean he needs to show them off like some sort of circus freak show. If I had muscles, I would keep them neatly tucked inside my T-shirt where they belong. I wouldn’t stand there posing while giving my oral presentation on the Incas.

  Normally, Jackson’s behavior wouldn’t bother me except for one small fact. Becca’s desk sat in the front row. After the lunchroom incident, I was once again doing my best to ignore her, but that plan wasn’t working. If anything, the more I tried, the more my attention went right back to her. The only saving grace was that my desk sat in the back of the classroom, where Ben couldn’t see my gaping stares. Were that to happen, I’d be introducing myself as Armando at my new school somewhere east of the Rockies.

  Jackson finished his oral report to a smattering of applause, none of which came from me. The only smattering I cared about was the smattering of hair on my arms so downy soft that my forearms could be mistaken for a newborn chick. Man, I hate puberty and the way it changes people. Other people. I looked up to find Jackson taking his seat.

  “Pretty good, huh?” Jackson whispered.

  I hunkered down in my chair. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

  “When are you going?” he asked.

  When was I going? What was he talking about?

  “Stu, you’re up,” Ms. Hunzinger called from the head of the class.

  Up? Up what? And that’s when it hit me. With the events of the last few days, I had forgotten all about my oral report.

  “I don’t think there’s enough time,” I tried.

  “There’s still forty-five minutes of class left. Now let’s get on with it.”

  My thoughts swirled. I hadn’t done the reading. Or listened well enough to Jackson to know what he’d read. I had no excuse, at least none I was willing to give in front of the class. The door caught my eye. I could probably make it out before my teacher could stop me. But where would I go? Just call me Armando.

  “We don’t have all day, Mr. Truly.”

  I rose from my desk and walked to the front of the room like a man being dragged to the gallows. If only my head were being chopped off, it would be so much easier. But my life is never that quick and painless.

  “The Incas lived a long time ago,” I began. I paused, reaching deep inside for something I knew about the Incas. I came up empty-handed. “They lived in groups and invented a lot of cool things.” Beads of sweat formed on my forehead.

  “Can you give some examples?” Ms. Hunzinger prompted.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied without enthusiasm. “They made clothing and cooking utensils.” I was pretty sure all ancient people had done that. “And invented ink.” This was a stretch, but with a name like the Incas, it only followed.

  Giggles rose from the class. “And they built ships.” This had to be true. What ancient civilization didn’t build ships? Laughter fluttered about. Apparently, at least one civilization hadn’t.

  “Mr. Truly, have you done any research at all on the Incas?”

  My sweatshirt smelled like something had crawled inside and died. From the corner of my eye, I could see Becca with her eyes down.

  “Not any I can remember at the moment.”

  “Shall we try again Monday?” Ms. Hunzinger continued. “I think I know how you’ll be spending your weekend, am I right?”

  I slunk back to my seat.

  “Bummer,” Jackson said, the muscles of his jaw rippling. Even his jaws could ripple. He handed me a couple books. “Read these, they’re really good.”

  I looked down at The World of the Incas and Incas: Then and Now. Muscles, facial hair, and smart. He was a downright menace.

  I arrived home red in the face, having packed thirty pounds of books about the Incas with me.

  “Hey, Stu,” my father said, surveying the multitude of shiny objects lying around him, none of which seemed likely to be connected together any time soon. “I’m starting on the carburetor today. And then it’s on to the handlebars. Wanna give me a hand?”

  When my father’s stressed, he disappears into the garage to rebuild his motorcycle. He says he’s customizing it, but I don’t think he has any idea how to put it back together.

  “Sorry, I’ve got homework.”

  He squinted at me. “Something bothering you?”

  Was something bothering me? Excellent question. I wanted to tell him I had eaten my lunch in a bathroom stall, but that would only lead to more questions, none of which I was ready to answer. “Nope.”

  He squinted harder, scrunching up his face like a pirate in some old movie. “Is it a girl?”

  “No,” I said, my eyes going wide and my face turning red like a stoplight.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” he said with a wink. “They’ve got their wily ways, but so do we.”

  I left my father and lugged the books I was carrying up to my room. After an hour, I had yet to open one of the books but had spent a lot of time reflecting on what sort of wily ways boys had in dealing with girls. So far I hadn’t thought of any. I figured spending more time on the matter wouldn’t change things. After another hour, I concluded I was right. By then, it was almost dinnertime. My stomach grumbled a reminder that I had only eaten half my lunch.

  For dinner, my mother had made baked chicken with potatoes and gravy. My father liked to call potatoes the meat of all vegetables. This seemed to make them more appetizing. I had to agree. Trying to eat broccoli was like trying to down a small tree, but a potato in any form was downright tasty.

  “Your father said you have a lot of homework this weekend.”

  “Yeah,” I replied between mouthfuls, “we’re studying the Incas right now. I have to give an oral report on Monday.”

  “Oh,” my mother said, “that sounds important. If you’d like to practice it, just let us know.”

  My father let out a sigh, the sort of sigh I’d let out if I were being forced to listen to a speech on the Incas. Just today in class, I had let out several such sighs.

  “Bill,” my mother said sternly, “I’m sure your father listened to you practice your oral reports when you were in school.”

  My father gave my mother a have-you-met-my-

  father? look. “Not unless the report was on the location of a hidden fishing hole.”

  “Well, still,” my mother continued, “if Stu needs to practice, we can take a few moments to listen.”

  “Really,” I interjected, “I’m okay.”

  “Good man,” my father said with a wink. “Have another potato.”

  After dinner, I skimmed through chapter after chapter of interesting facts about the Incas. When I say interesting, I mean interesting to others. Ap
parently, my teacher qualified as one of those. Jackson seemed to be another. That in and of itself ruined the subject for me. I took a moment to check out my bicep. As always, it made my shirt bulge, so long as I pulled down on the sleeve from underneath with my other hand. Unfortunately, I had to pull down hard to get any bulge at all. Over time, all the pulling had stretched the sleeve of my T-shirt to the point that it looked like a woman’s blouse. I checked the bicep of my other arm. The phrase nothing to see popped to mind. That is not the phrase you want when flexing your bicep. I went back to my notes.

  Actually, I didn’t go back to my notes. I spent the rest of the weekend doing pretty much what I always did on the weekends, despite my mother’s gentle reminders that Monday would be here “all too soon.” All too soon seemed all too far away while playing Death Intruders at Ben’s, eating junk food at Ben’s, and playing more Death Intruders at yep, you guessed it, Ben’s house.

  Sunday night I concluded that my mom was right. Monday really was coming all too soon. And at the rate I was going on my report, summer school would be coming all too sooner, which landed me back in my bedroom staring at the notes I never really started Friday evening.

  I returned to flipping through the books on the Incas I had been ignoring. And that’s when a miracle took place. I discovered the Incas were the first to farm potatoes. Now that was something. The Incas were also into brain surgery. I myself had an interest in brain surgery, having removed a few brains from zombies while playing Death Intruders. I scribbled notes frantically, suddenly fascinated by Incan civilization. For several long minutes, actual learning took place. I think I heard angels sing.

  After finishing my report, I wandered downstairs looking for a snack. In the refrigerator, I found the lunch my mother had packed for me. I took a peek to ensure all the proper food groups had been covered. What I saw was a masterful mixture of protein, grains, fruit, and candy. She had outdone herself by including both a chocolate chip cookie and a Halloween-sized bag of Skittles.

  I was about to close the fridge when the memory of my lunch Friday struck me. Should I end up seated near Becca again, I would be left with half an orange as my main course. The clear answer was to sit on the far side of the lunchroom, where a guy could eat his baloney sandwich in peace. But following that plan of action would require my body doing what my brain commanded. Of late, that had been a real problem. I’m not sure my body had been following anything going on in my head. In fact, the more my brain tried to lead, the less my body seemed to follow. I was beginning to wonder how I accomplished anything at all.