Bottled Up by Jaye Murray Read Free Book Online Page B

Downs.”
    â€œOh, right. Mr. Giraldi told me you’d be calling—yesterday.”
    â€œWell, I’m calling today.”
    â€œI’m glad you did. Mr. Giraldi said that he thought you could use someone to talk to—that you have a lot going on right now.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t know,” I said.
    â€œHe also told me that he wants you to sign a release form giving me permission to let him know whether or not you show for appointments and comply with the counseling. Are you okay with that?”
    â€œDid he tell you I don’t have a choice?”
    I looked at Giraldi. He had his hands in his pockets and was watching me.
    â€œHe said if you didn’t come in he was expelling you.”
    â€œNice guy, right?”
    â€œCan you make it in today right after school? Say, three-thirty?”
    â€œI have to take my brother to T-ball practice—”
    â€œI don’t want to hear excuses,” Giraldi jumped in. “You get yourself there.”
    â€œWhat time is his practice?” Claire asked.
    â€œThree-thirty ’til about four-thirty.”
    â€œCan you get to my office by five?”
    â€œProbably.”
    She told me where the office was. It wasn’t far from the school. I knew the place. It was right next to the all-night gas station mini-mart where the Friday cashier always lets us buy six-packs.
    I hung up the phone and Giraldi opened his office door for me to step out.
    â€œYou have to attend all of the counseling appointments as often as she says and follow her rules. If you cut counseling or classes you’re out of here.”
    â€œWouldn’t you have more fun hassling somebody else?” I asked as I walked out the door.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œBest friend I ever had, my ass,” I said loud enough for him to hear.
    I want to go to a new kind of school.
    A school that teaches you what you need to know—not what you’re supposed to know.
    The third-floor boys’ bathroom smelled like a mix of everything that’s ever been flushed down the toilet plus the B.O. of a hundred ballplayers. I did my part to get rid of the stench by lighting up a joint next to an open window. There was no way I was going to sit through Fleming’s class without a little help from my friend Mr. Cannabis the Weed.
    I sucked in as much freedom as I could, holding on to the smoke until my lungs were going to bust.
    â€œCan I get a hit?” this kid Webster asked me, coming out of one of the stalls. Johnny and I gave him the name Webster because he’s like a friggin’ walking dictionary. This is the kind of guy who’s always trying to get somebody like me to like him. Trying to come off cool by asking for a hit or laughing too loud when you’re acting stupid. I don’t know why these bozos can’t just be okay with who they are—smart losers who’ll never be cool but will make a lot of money someday.
    â€œNo time, Webster. I can’t be late for class.”
    I breathed in some more life and closed my eyes, hoping the kid would disappear. He didn’t.
    â€œYou’re always late for class,” he said, laughing at his joke. I didn’t laugh with him. I didn’t even smile. I blew some smoke his way and stared him down until he left.
    I pulled as much from the roach as I could—smoking it down so low that I burned my lip.
    I was splashing water on my mouth to cool it when the late bell rang and the bathroom door opened. I figured it was going to be Giraldi or some hall monitor to bust me.
    It was Slayer.
    He was getting ready to light up a bone.
    â€œHere,” he said. “I got one for you too.”
    I was late already. A few more minutes wouldn’t kill anybody.
    I want to know what teachers talk about in the teachers’ lounge. I bet the guy teachers hit each other in the arm, talking about the tenth-grade girls in their tight jeans. They probably go on about how they wish