Bad Kid by David Crabb Read Free Book Online

had wiped on which part of my body.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” I heard, and turned to see a small brunette wearing a name tag. I froze midsmear, with a copy of Esquire magazine pressed against my neck. “You know they’ll give you free samples at Dillard’s?” she asked with a grin.
    â€œOh,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
    â€œIt’s okay, honey,” she said, walking forward and patting my back. “Wanna know which one I love? All the boys are wearing it now.”
    She looked over either shoulder and pulled down a copy of Men’s Health . “It’s this one,” she said, tearing open the sample flap at the center. I lowered my face into the magazine and was suddenly overtaken by the exotic, musky scent of Greg Brooks.
    â€œThank you,” I whispered, genuinely grateful for another retail angel in my life.
    That day my mother bought me the fragrance—Fahrenheit. On Monday morning I sprayed loads of it on my neck and wrists, not wanting the scent to fade before fifth period. In gym class I sat in front of Greg and waited for him to say something. I imagined him tapping me on the shoulder to compliment me on my great scent, but nothing happened. Each morning I lathered on more and more Fahrenheit, oblivious to the absurdity of my plan: how would Greg be able to smell me over himself when we smelled the exact same way?
    By Friday morning the pungent tang of my own body made my eyes water.
    â€œYou smell like a French whore,” gagged my mom as she rolled down the driver’s-seat window on the way to school. “Honey, too much scent is almost worse than none at all!”
    In gym class I sat down in front of Greg and waited expectantly for him to say something. After a few moments of silence, I decided to kick it up a notch. I began making big, exaggerated gestures as I took off my coat, hoping to fan my splendiferous odor in his direction. But nothing happened. So I made my movements even bigger, swooping my arms out wider and with more velocity. Within five seconds I was struggling violently with my coat, flapping like some great, crippled bird attempting flight.
    â€œCrabb!” yelled Coach. “What the hell? You got bees in your bonnet?”
    â€œOh,” I stammered over scattered laughter. “My coat’s stuck.”
    â€œYou look like you need the damn Jaws of Life up there!” Coach smiled mockingly as everyone laughed.
    â€œI got it,” Greg said as a hand clamped down on my sleeve. With one light tug it was over. Greg had not only talked to me, but touched me. Greg Brooks had . . . touched me.
    â€œTime to change, boys,” Coach yelled before focusing his gaze on me. “You think you’ll be able to Harry Houdini yourself outta that shirt, Crabb?”
    â€œUm, yes,” I whimpered as everyone jogged to the locker room.
    I turned to thank Greg but was confronted with his perfectly still, sunglasses-wrapped face, like a contemporary re-creation of The Thinker with more stylish hair and headphones. Could he hear me? Was he looking at me? Did he realize how perfect he was? There was no way to know. And, until I grew some balls, no way to tell him.
    By December, Greg still hadn’t changed out. And I still hadn’t really made any friends. As much as my manifesto was working,the isolation was starting to wear on me. Between classes I would look at other groups of kids in their cliques, laughing and whispering in the hallways. To an outsider looking in, their friendship configurations seemed obvious and dull. All the girls with a certain type of purse and blouse ate together in one area, while boys with long hair and rock-band T-shirts smoked cigarettes in another. In the parking lot, clean-shaven guys with big muscles and checkered shirts gathered around one car, while girls in matching school jackets carrying musical instruments rode away in another. There was no special science or