I'll Stop the World (3)

Two years ago, Alyssa’s brother, Devon, won. He’s now at MIT, and will probably go on to work at NASA or cure cancer or something.

Alyssa wasn’t eligible to apply for this year’s award. You have to declare your intention to attend a four-year college to qualify for the scholarship, and Alyssa opted for a two-year art school in New York. Her parents have not been thrilled. It was a whole Thing.

I, on the other hand, disappointed exactly no one by not applying for the award, because no one in my life is dumb enough to think I will ever win anything more significant than Employee of the Month at the Dollar Tree.

I mean, I haven’t won yet, but I feel like my time is coming. Pete Arnold can’t win every month, can he?

Also, I’m not going to college. When I told Mr. Jensen, he just shrugged and said, “I figured.”

I couldn’t decide whether that was unprofessional or just realistic. On the one hand, isn’t it supposed to be his job to encourage me to follow my dreams or whatever? But on the other, if he didn’t arrive at that conclusion, he’d be really bad at his job. After all, he’s supposed to get to know the kids at this school, and anyone who’s met me for more than three seconds can tell you I’m not college material.

So it’s a draw, is what I’m saying.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask Alyssa, trying my best not to move, which only makes the task seem more daunting. From the waist up, I think I’m doing a decent enough job, but from the waist down, my leg jitters to a silent beat, determinedly signaling the H in ADHD to the rest of our row like a manic cheerleader. I catch dirty looks from the kids on either side of us. Stupid conjoined seats.

Alyssa shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” Which is Alyssa-speak for let’s not talk about it. “Are we going to the pep rally tomorrow?”

I recognize a pointed subject change when I hear one, but that doesn’t stop me from groaning. “It’s at Dave’s house. I don’t want to give up my Saturday night to go to Dave’s.”

It’s my own fault for speaking too loudly, but Dave swivels in his seat again and glares at me. “You’re not invited, Bore-en.”

I ignore Dave’s stupid play on my last name, Warren, which has been following me around with varying degrees of popularity since sixth grade, despite being painfully unclever.

“Everyone’s invited, Dave. It’s a school event.”

Town safety codes wisely prohibit the setting of giant fires on school grounds, but instead of doing the reasonable thing and, you know, not having a massive bonfire, the Buford County School Board has been skirting the code for decades by hosting the fall pep rally on private property instead of at the school.

I have a hard time believing that this isn’t also violating some sort of code, but it would appear that as long as it’s not technically on government property, no one cares. Plus, I guess the optics of having a massive inferno on the front lawn of a school that’s named after a couple who burned to death in that school—making me, their grandson, a morbidly twisted version of Buford County royalty—are not great.

Anyway, tomorrow night, Dave Derrin’s family is hosting the Warren Memorial High School pep rally on their massive estate just north of Stone River, as they have every fall since before I was born.

Coincidentally, tomorrow night, I plan to be violently ill for a period of time that may or may not precisely coincide with the duration of the bonfire. But Dave doesn’t have to know that.

“I probably should go,” I say, feigning thoughtfulness, “since the school’s named after me and all.”

“It’s not named after you, crotchstain. Just your dead grandparents. Besides, it’s not like there’s anything special about frying to a crisp. Anyone can do that.”

You’d think that insulting someone’s dead grandparents would be off-limits for most of civilized society, but that’s what makes Dave special.

You know. Like how an abnormally large hemorrhoid is special.

“Ew,” says Alyssa, wrinkling her nose at Dave. “Did you really just say that?”

I can see the wheels in Dave’s head turning, trying to figure out a way to walk back the offensive comment enough to win Alyssa’s approval, but without having to apologize to me.

I put an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders, hoping she’ll wait until Dave isn’t looking to tell me to knock it off.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at my arm like he’s trying to light it on fire.

“It’s okay, Dave,” I say magnanimously. “I forgive you. I know you really do want us at your party.” I emphasize the us.

I feel more than see Alyssa roll her eyes; she’s turned her attention back to her sketch, but her shoulders give a slight shake and her chin twitches, which translates roughly to Justin, you are so full of crap.

Fortunately, Dave does not speak fluent Alyssa, and therefore does not realize that she’s only barely tolerating me right now. Based on the look he shoots at me, if you could give a person gonorrhea through sheer force of will, I’d be covered in warts by now.

Or, you know, whatever the actual symptoms of gonorrhea are. I don’t know; I just imagine it’s gross.

As if on cue, the winner wraps up his speech onstage, and Taylor Strickland skips back to the microphone, dismissing us to class with a reminder that everyone’s invited! to the pep rally tomorrow night.