Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie (4 page)

There was no answer.

Tips about high school would have been nice, too. Today would have been so much easier if I’d had advice from someone who’d already been there. But Bobby hadn’t been able to tell me anything useful. What about me? Years from now, when my little brother or sister was ready to start high school, would I remember anything?

I tried to remember my first day of kindergarten. It was like riffling a deck of cards. Mostly blurs, with a couple of solid images flying past. Middle school was a bit clearer, but even that was fading. Would anything be left: of my memories of high school fifteen years from now? It was weird to realize I was going to forget things I hadn’t even experienced yet.

I looked down at my textbooks. I wasn’t ready to tackle history or chemistry. Or algebra. I needed a break. It’s not like it would take that long once I got started.

There was an extra notebook on my desk. I picked it up and stared at the blank page for a while, then wrote the date.

• • •

a
hand bursts up through the grave, the bloodless flesh clawing at the soil as a church bell rings in the distance. Slowly, the un-dead creature emerges, pulling himself free of ground that housed his endless sleep
.

Endless sleep?

I wish. I felt like such a zombie. I’d underestimated how much homework I had. Big-time. I’d stayed up until two-fifteen. When I finally got to sleep, I had at least three nightmares about “The Lottery.” In one, I was surrounded by a mob of adults who all had baby heads.

I felt so tired, I could cry.

“Good morning,” Mom sang when I stumbled into the kitchen. She’d cooked up a big breakfast—eggs, sausages, toast. The smell of food made me gag. I wondered if morning sickness was catching.

“How about something to eat?” she asked.

“Maybe tomorrow …” I staggered out. Damn. High school was going to kill me.

I fell asleep on the bus, which was really a bad move, because when I woke up my backpack was missing. So was one of my sneakers. The thought of losing all my homework jolted me
awake. I spotted the backpack on the floor by the last row, and had to wait for everyone to walk past me before I could grab it. Which got me shouted at. Luckily, my sneaker was on the seat. Unluckily, it was stuffed with chewing gum and half a Twinkie.

I spotted Patrick, Mitch, and Kyle by the edge of the parking lot, tossing a toy football. I didn’t have the energy to hang out. I snuck around them and went inside, stopping at a trash can to scrape out as much of the gum and Twinkie as I could.

I think I dozed some more in homeroom. But at least I was among other freshmen, so nothing bad happened. When I got to English, I noticed the screen was pulled down over the blackboard. I checked around the room. Everyone looked exhausted. Two kids had their heads down on their desks.

“Are we having a movie?” Kelly asked.

Please
, I thought. That would be great. They’d turn out the lights and I could take another nap.

Mr. Franka shook his head, but didn’t say anything until everyone was seated.

“We should watch
The Princess Bride
,” Julia said. “It’s perfect for English class.”

My head snapped in her direction, but I managed to strangle my cry of agreement so it ended up sounding like nothing more than a weird cough. That was one of my favorite movies. Life would be so much easier if she’d just say something incredibly stupid so I could kick the habit of worshiping her.

“My friends,” Mr. Franka said, “I have a treat for you.”

If it was a mattress and a blanket, I’d be happy.

He held up an old book. “But first, a word of explanation.
One of the most popular series from long ago was
Tom Swift
. The key thing about Tom, for our purposes, was that he never just
said
anything. The writer was always ramping things up. Tom would ‘exclaim surprisedly,’ or ‘shout vigorously.’

“Tom’s speech habits became so well known that people started making fun of them. It turned into a word game. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you”—he reached down and yanked the cord at the bottom of the screen, sending it clattering back—“the Tom Swifty.”

I started reading the writing on the blackboard, and started waking up a bit.

A couple kids just stared and said, “Huh?” But I got it right away. I especially liked the last one, because it wasn’t as obvious as the others. You had to make the leap from Shakespeare to William, and from there to Will.

“Explain the first one,” Mr. Franka said, pointing to me.

“A hot dog is also called a frank,” I said. “So using
frankly
makes it a joke.”

He nodded. “Very swift of you. Next one?” He called on another kid.

I zoned in and out during the rest of the class as we
continued to discuss short stories. When first period ended, I headed for the gym, which was also amazingly well hidden. Like the cafeteria, I finally found it by following my nose.

“Wake up!” someone shouted, ramming me in the shoulder as I reached the locker-room door.

I spun around and yelled back at Kyle. “Knock it off.”

“Man, you look like you’re wasted,” he said.

“Sleep deprivation,” I muttered.

He stared at me. “Sleep what?”

“Never mind.” I followed him into the locker room. Or tried to. A class of seniors poured out the door with the force of water bursting through a broken dam. I got flattened against the wall in the rush.

“Okay, ladies,” a deep voice roared when I finally got inside. “Let’s get moving.”

Within ten minutes, I found myself wishing I’d been trampled to death in the hallway.

See Scott run
.

Run, Scott, run
.

See Scott die
.

No such luck
…

We didn’t even warm up. As soon as we got into our gym clothes, Mr. Cravutto herded the class outside and tried his best to kill us with an intense session of jumping jacks, squat thrusts, push-ups, sit-ups, throw-ups, and leg lifts. Then we ran in place. After which, for variety, we ran laps. Followed by sprints.

“This sucks,” I gasped when I finished my sprint. As far as I could see, phys ed was all phys and no ed.

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of shape,” Kyle said.

“I am not. Nobody is in shape for this.” I bent over and tried to catch my breath.

“Okay, another lap,” Mr. Cravutto screamed. “Jog backward.”

Sheesh. He’d probably make us run up the side of the school if he could figure out how. While I was jogging, I kept my mind off the pain by thinking of things that were worse than gym class. It was a short list. There just weren’t that many things capable of producing so much misery.

Eventually, we stopped exercising and played soccer, which was fun. Or would have been if I hadn’t already been exercised to death. We ran another lap at the end of the period.

“Kick up some dust, you sissies,” Mr. Cravutto yelled. For the record, this seemed to be an impossible request to fulfill when running on cinders three days after a heavy rainfall.

We had to take a shower. It was one of the rules. I got in and out as fast as I could. I figured I’d take a real one when I got home. Thank goodness there were only freshmen in the class. The last thing I’d want was to be naked within striking range of a senior. Especially a senior armed with a damp towel. Towels might look soft and fluffy, but in the hands of an expert they can remove a limb.

Next to me, Kyle dried his hair, then stuffed the damp towel into his locker on top of his gym clothes, where it could start the process of putrification. “I told you that would be great,” he said when we headed for the hall.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy dodging the mob of big kids
who’d burst through the door. I knew if I got swept up in the stream, I’d vanish inside, never to be seen again. At least, not in one piece. I shuddered to think where the next Twinkie could get jammed.

When I got to art class, I figured I should write down my list while it was still fresh in my mind.

Scott Hudson’s Guide to Things That Are Worse Than Gym

1. Drinking a half-gallon of lemonade and then taking a six-hour ride across bumpy roads on a bus with no bathroom.
   
2. Sitting on a cavalry sword that’s been dipped in Tabasco sauce.
   
3. Getting a big smooch from Aunt Zelda before she cleans her false teeth.
   
4. Getting a big smooch from Aunt Zelda after she cleans her false teeth.
   
5. Getting your head stuck in a bucketful of dead worms that’s been baking in the sun for a week.
   

We caught up with Mitch and Patrick at lunch. “You guys have gym yet?” I asked them.

Patrick lifted up his gym bag from the floor. “Next period.”

Mitch lifted up an empty hand. “I got out of it.”

“Out? How?” That was like hearing he’d won the lottery.

“Bad back.” He rotated his shoulder, then flinched. “Yeah, right,” Kyle said.

Mitch grinned. “Got a letter from my doctor.”

I’d have loved to get out of gym. But, unlike Mitch, I didn’t have an uncle with a medical degree.

“Wish I could get out of English,” Patrick said.

Kyle nodded. “You got that right.”

“Are you kidding? English is great,” I said. “I think it’s my favorite class.”

They stared at me like I’d just admitted I loved to eat crayons dipped in mayonnaise. “Seriously, it’s my best class.”

“No way,” Kyle said. “We spent the whole period memorizing propositions.”

“You mean prepositions?” I asked.

Kyle shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Whatever you call it,” Patrick said, “we got them rammed down our throats.”

“Wow. Rammed down. You must be fed up,” I said. “Ticked off. Bummed out. Screwed over.”

“Very funny,” Patrick said. “Kiss off.”

I couldn’t imagine Mr. Franka making us do that. “Really, we had a great time.” I told them about the Tom Swifties.

“That’s sort of cool,” Patrick said. “You’re lucky. Sounds like you got a good class.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” I thought about how small a part of my year English class was going to be, compared to what was happening at home.

Patrick stared at me for a second, then said, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look strange,” he said. “Like something’s going on.”

“Everything’s fine.”

I guess Patrick didn’t believe my lie. “Is Bobby in trouble again?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing that simple. My mom’s having a baby.” Wow. It was weird to hear myself say that.

The news earned some gasps of surprise. I looked around the table. Patrick was the youngest in his family. Just like me. Kyle had a sister who was two years younger. Mitch was the third of four kids, but he was only a year older than his younger brother. “Any advice?”

Nothing but shrugs. Except from Kyle, who said, “Tell your mom to stay out of libraries so she doesn’t have another mutant bookworm.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass that along.”

I glanced over at Mitch, but he wasn’t interested in birth at the moment. From what I could tell, he’d given all his attention to other aspects of biology. He was staring across the cafeteria at a girl with long brown hair. She looked like a young version of that singer he had the hots for.