Andrew Smith - Winger

After Econ, we had a twenty-minute break. I just looked around for a bench in the shade and stretched out on it. I put my backpack over my face so I wouldn’t have to see anyone and, maybe, no one would see me either. I could have stayed that way forever, but I heard Seanie and JP standing over me, laughing about something.

“Hey, hangoverboy, we’ve been looking all over for you,” JP said. “Come on. Get up. It’s time for Lit class. We’re almost through to lunch.”

Oh, yeah—another thing about the charms of PM. Since nobody can have cell phones and stuff, the kids here actually talk to each other. And they write notes, too. I know these are both ridiculously primitive human behaviors, but what else can you do when your school forces you to live like the fucking Donner Party?

The reason I mention this is that as I lifted the backpack away from my sweaty face, Seanie slipped me a folded square of paper with flowers and hearts drawn on it, and said, “Here. Read this. I wrote you a haiku about how gay you are for sitting next to Joey for two classes in a row.”

“I also sat right behind Megan Renshaw.”

“That’s called compensation.”

I slipped my hand inside my vest and put Seanie’s note in my front pocket.

“Nice,” I said. “In Lit class I’m going to write you a sonnet about how nothing could possibly be gayer than writing your friend a haiku.”

IT JUST PROVED THAT EVERYONE was right about Seanie being a stalker.

Why would he be so obsessed as to find out exactly where I sat in my classes? He probably kept little stalker charts and notebooks on everyone he knew.

I had been feeling so sick that day that I wasn’t even thinking about Annie until I saw her in our American Literature class.

Just seeing her made me feel momentarily healed.

I walked down the aisle beside her desk and sat in the empty seat next to hers. She just glanced at me and then refocused on a paperback she was reading.

“Hi. Can I sit next to you?”

“I don’t care.”

Whoa. The very last time I had seen her, she actually touched me; she rubbed her hand through my hair, she called me Ryan Dean, and she said she hoped I’d feel better.

And now ?

All of a sudden she was so obviously pissed off at me. JP sat down on the other side of her. I saw him look at me. He had watched our little exchange. I could tell he saw something was up too. But, before I could ask her about it, Mr. Wellins began blathering away about American Literature and Nathaniel Hawthorne (an author I honestly do like, but how was I supposed to pay attention to him when I felt like crap and Annie Altman had just about slapped me across my face with her “I don’t care”?).

Note to self: Now, that last paragraph ended with a cluster of punctuation marks I have never seen together—in that order—in my life.

I took Seanie’s note out and unfolded it. He actually did write me a haiku (and there was no way I was going to waste my time responding with a sonnet). The top of the page had been decorated with a rainbow. Beneath it were two crudely drawn stick figures holding hands. Arrows pointed to each of them from identifying names: “Winger” on one side and “Joey” on the other.

Winger and Joey

Beside each other in class

“Let’s be study buddies.”

And I wrote underneath it:

YOUAREAFUCKINGMORONWHOCAN’TEVENCOUNTSYLLABLESSEANIE!!!

-- Is something wrong, Annie?

I wrote it on the edge of Seanie’s note. I put a smiley face next to the question mark.

She leaned over and scrawled:

-- I heard you got drunk last night.

You’re an ASSHOLE!

-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

-- You’re an asshole just like Chas.

Don’t even talk to me.

See ya.

And that was that. She ignored me for the rest of that endless lecture on Hawthorne, which I couldn’t listen to. My ears were ringing.

I sat there, wishing I could just die.

And, underneath the note I had left for Seanie, I wrote one more line:

ANDFUCKYOUFORTELLINGANNIEIGOTDRUNK LASTNIGHTTOO!!! GOODFRIEND.

When Mr. Wellins dismissed us for lunch, Annie sprang out of her chair and rushed out the door.

“Annie, wait.”

But I knew I wouldn’t catch her.

“What’s going on?” JP asked.

“Nothing. She’s pissed off at me.”

“You think?” JP tried to smile. “Let’s go get lunch.”

“I’m not feeling good,” I said. “I’ll see you at rugby.”

JP just shrugged and packed up his stuff.

NOW I REALLY FELT TERRIBLE. I wanted to give up, and I wanted to kick Chas Becker in the teeth too.

Just about everyone was crowding into the mess hall, all buzzing with first-day-back stories. Those who didn’t hang out inside sat in segregated groups on the grass between the mess hall and the stadium.

I followed the path along the lake, alone, and found a bench near O-Hall. I put my pack down as a pillow and kicked off my hot, brand new shoes that turned my socks black in spots. I lay down, staring up into the branches on the pines that towered over me.

This was the worst day of my life.

Scarcely twenty-four hours had passed since my parents had abandoned me here, and already my life was spiraling out of control. I got drunk with Chas Becker, the ultra-unhot Mrs. Singer downstairs did something weird to me, my best friend hated me, which made me realize that I would never have any chance with her or any other girl for that matter because I was a fourteen-year-old-skinny-ass-loser-bitch, and I felt like steaming hot dog crap.

Other than that, things were just swell.

Then I did something I actually, honestly, have not done since I was in, like, fourth grade. I actually, honestly, started to cry.

I am such a loser. I really didn’t belong here.

I folded my arm across my eyes. I think only about two tears came out before I got hold of myself and stopped feeling so stupid and useless. Well, maybe I got hold of myself; maybe those two tears drained all the fluid I had left in me. And I just lay there like that until I began hearing the motion of kids on their way to afternoon classes, so I straightened up, put my shoes on, and headed back to the locker room for the last class of the day.

IT MADE ME FEEL ALIVE to lace up my rugby boots. As long as they were on me, I could forget about everything else that swirled around inside this 142-pound sack of dehydrated failure.

I love the sound of all those metal cleats moving around on the cold concrete floor in the locker room. There was something ancient in that noise, the music of a coordinated herd. I sat on the bench between Seanie and JP while we changed. I pulled the folded haiku from my pocket and gave it back to Seanie.

“You suck at poetry,” I said.

Seanie was tying up the drawstring inside his shorts.

“You pissed off Annie, too,” JP said.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Seanie could be sincere about things. He said, “I’m sorry I told her about you, Ryan Dean. I thought she’d think it was funny too. Really. I’m sorry.”

JP sat on the bench and pulled his long socks up to his knees.

“God,” he said, “I’ve been dying to play all summer. I need to hit someone.”

“Me too,” I said.

“You want to hit me, Ryan Dean?” Seanie asked.

“Get a ball in front of me on the field and you’re going the other way, yeah,” I said. “Other than that, I don’t think I’d ever hit anyone off the field.”

“Me too,” JP said.

And that was all we needed to say to let Seanie know it was okay.