Boy21 by Matthew Quick Read Free Book Online

miniskirts.
    “How do I look, Finley?” she says.
    I give her a smile, two thumbs up, and one raised eyebrow.
    “Thank you,” she says. “You look very handsome in your new Sixers T-shirt.”
    Erin puts her hands on my knees and leans in for a kiss, butbefore our lips meet, I hear a car horn, and then Boy21 is getting out of a big old Cadillac.
    We strap on our backpacks and meet him at the car.
    Boy21’s wearing a brand-new-looking outfit.
    Tommy Hilfiger button-down shirt.
    Dark blue jeans.
    Nike Zoom Soldier sneakers.
    His hair’s been cut and shaved tight to his skull by a barber—no more nappy braids.
    Instead of a backpack, he has a leather over-the-shoulder bag.
    He looks sort of like a prep-school student, which will put him at a disadvantage in our school and make him stick out, because no one at our school has money, except drug dealers.
    Erin offers her hand and says, “I’m Erin. Nice to meet you.”
    “Russ.” Boy21 shakes her hand without making eye contact.
    “Where you from, Russ?” Erin asks.
    “Out west,” he says.
    This is when I realize that either the therapist has really healed Russell or Boy21 has gone incognito.
    Out west?
    It’s such a true, grounded, not-weird answer.
    I’m surprised by how disappointed I am.
    “You’ll look after our boy?” Mr. Allen says from inside the Cadillac.
    “Yes, sir,” I say.
    “Thank you,” Mr. Allen says, then smiles and looks me in the eye from under his old-style hat—the kind with a feather sticking out of the red band ringing the 360-degree short brim.
    As we walk to school, Erin tries to engage Boy21 in conversation, but he only gives one-or two-word answers, asks Erin no questions, and kind of acts like I usually do, which makes me wonder if he’s also a minimalist speaker in certain situations.
    I keep waiting for her to ask this six-five kid the most obvious question, and, of course, she eventually does.
    When she asks if Boy21 plays basketball, he says, “No,” with conviction.
    I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m glad to hear he doesn’t play basketball anymore. And I’m relieved that my spot on the team is secure.
    She asks where exactly he’s from out west—what town, what state?
    He says, “I forget.”
    Erin gives me a worried glance, and then asks Boy21 if he likes Bellmont so far.
    Russ shrugs.
    “Was that your grandfather in the car?”
    He nods.
    “Do you live with him?”
    “And my grams.”
    “Where are your parents?”
    “No more questions,” he says, then smiles awkwardly and adds,
“please.”
    Erin gives me another worried look.
    When we turn onto Jackson Street, Erin says, “There it is. Bellmont High.”
    Our school is a long three-story brick building with a cop carperpetually parked out front. By the front doors are metal detectors manned by large grumpy people who perform random bag searches. Kids have tagged the outside bricks with all sorts of graffiti. In sloppy silver spray-paint cursive someone long ago wrote BELLMONT HIGH BLOWS HUGE COCK next to the gigantic silhouette of our mascot, which is a rooster. And those words are the first we read every morning.
    The hallways are yellow and very loud. Girls laughing. People pushing one another. Lockers slamming. No one seems to notice Boy21, just like no one seems to notice us.
    We squeeze through the crowds and check the lists posted in the hallway.
    Boy21 is in my homeroom even though homerooms are arranged alphabetically and all the other
M
and
W
names are not grouped together.
    This is when I realize that Coach has intervened. Our team has been so good for so long under Coach, he has a lot of power around here.
    Boy21’s locker is right next to mine and it just so happens that he’s in every one of my classes and every single teacher has chosen to sit us together on the seating charts. This also means that Boy21’s in all Advanced Placement classes, like me, which isn’t saying much because our school isn’t very academic. Don’t think I’m