Bringing Down the Mouse by Ben Mezrich Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ben Mezrich
his chest.
4
HEY, JUST BE GLAD itâs not snowing. And if we die out here, at least we wonât have to take Mr. Marshallâs social studies exam.â
Charlie grimaced as he yanked the collar of his down jacket up as high as it would go. He was shivering so hard that he could hear his teeth clattering together, and it felt like the bones in his cheeks had turned to ice. It wasnât supposed to be this cold so early in the fallâbut then again, growing up in New England, the seasons had always seemed to rage over the calendar like hurricane-driven white-water rapids. The best you could do was dress the part. Today, for Charlie, that meant a navy blue down coat that made him look like a blueberry Michelin Man, thick jeans tucked intothermal socks, and stiff work boots that kept his toes warm but left blisters on his heels the size of golf balls. All things considered, heâd rather have dressed normally and stayed inside.
Unfortunately, staying inside wasnât an option at eleven thirty a.m., because that was the beginning of the sixth-grade lunch period. Which meant that if he wanted to eat, he had to line up outside, single file, on a covered double-wide sidewalk, and wait his turn to pick up a plastic tray from a stack by the propped-open double doors leading inside. It seemed crazy, having an outdoor entrance to a lunchroom in New England, and every year, the school administration made plans to shift the waiting area to somewhere more reasonable. But for some reason, these plans never came to fruition. There was always some other construction project or school addition that took precedent. Charlie secretly believed the school wanted them put on ice before lunchâbetter to keep them from turning into wild animals in the relatively free time between classes.
Once Charlie claimed a tray and a battered fork and knife, heâd get to make his way inside. But for the moment, from where Charlie was standingâstill twenty feet from the double doors, wedged between Jeremy and a British exchange student named Nileswho was quietly cursing to himself as he bounced from foot to foot in a useless effort to stay warmâit seemed like theyâd be stuck outside forever. Charlie would have gladly taken three of Mr. Marshallâs notoriously tricky social studies exams in exchange for a trip to the front of the lunch lineâor a pair of better fitting boots.
âIf you die first,â he said, eyeing Jeremyâs high-top Converse sneakersâobviously a hand-me-down from some cousin somewhere, so scuffed and worn they looked as comfortable as cotton, âcan I have your shoes?â
âDonât you get your allowance next week? Make me an offer. I donât need all my toes.â
Charlie laughed. The thought of his allowance cheered him, because it meant another month had gone by, and the deeper he moved into sixth grade, the more routine and comfortable middle school was beginning to feel. It was already the last Thursday in September. After the bizarre and electrifying afternoon at the Halloween fair, life had almost instantly returned to the uneventful and warmly monotonous rhythm of another school year. Middle school felt just like elementary school, from the bus picking him up at his suburban home in a leafy cul-de-sac near the Newton-Wellesley line, to Jeremy and Charlieâs daily assault on the vendingmachine. And then after homeroom, the relentless hop from class to class, most of it mindless swatches of time to Charlie, because he was too far ahead of the curve and too smart to open his mouth when the teachers asked questions. He knew what it was like to be the kid who gave the right answer too many times.
As fascinating as the Halloween Fair with Finn and Magic had been, that had seemed to be the end of the bizarre episode; despite Magicâs farewell words, the two seventh graders had made no attempt to contact Charlie, nor had he seen either kid in the
4
HEY, JUST BE GLAD itâs not snowing. And if we die out here, at least we wonât have to take Mr. Marshallâs social studies exam.â
Charlie grimaced as he yanked the collar of his down jacket up as high as it would go. He was shivering so hard that he could hear his teeth clattering together, and it felt like the bones in his cheeks had turned to ice. It wasnât supposed to be this cold so early in the fallâbut then again, growing up in New England, the seasons had always seemed to rage over the calendar like hurricane-driven white-water rapids. The best you could do was dress the part. Today, for Charlie, that meant a navy blue down coat that made him look like a blueberry Michelin Man, thick jeans tucked intothermal socks, and stiff work boots that kept his toes warm but left blisters on his heels the size of golf balls. All things considered, heâd rather have dressed normally and stayed inside.
Unfortunately, staying inside wasnât an option at eleven thirty a.m., because that was the beginning of the sixth-grade lunch period. Which meant that if he wanted to eat, he had to line up outside, single file, on a covered double-wide sidewalk, and wait his turn to pick up a plastic tray from a stack by the propped-open double doors leading inside. It seemed crazy, having an outdoor entrance to a lunchroom in New England, and every year, the school administration made plans to shift the waiting area to somewhere more reasonable. But for some reason, these plans never came to fruition. There was always some other construction project or school addition that took precedent. Charlie secretly believed the school wanted them put on ice before lunchâbetter to keep them from turning into wild animals in the relatively free time between classes.
Once Charlie claimed a tray and a battered fork and knife, heâd get to make his way inside. But for the moment, from where Charlie was standingâstill twenty feet from the double doors, wedged between Jeremy and a British exchange student named Nileswho was quietly cursing to himself as he bounced from foot to foot in a useless effort to stay warmâit seemed like theyâd be stuck outside forever. Charlie would have gladly taken three of Mr. Marshallâs notoriously tricky social studies exams in exchange for a trip to the front of the lunch lineâor a pair of better fitting boots.
âIf you die first,â he said, eyeing Jeremyâs high-top Converse sneakersâobviously a hand-me-down from some cousin somewhere, so scuffed and worn they looked as comfortable as cotton, âcan I have your shoes?â
âDonât you get your allowance next week? Make me an offer. I donât need all my toes.â
Charlie laughed. The thought of his allowance cheered him, because it meant another month had gone by, and the deeper he moved into sixth grade, the more routine and comfortable middle school was beginning to feel. It was already the last Thursday in September. After the bizarre and electrifying afternoon at the Halloween fair, life had almost instantly returned to the uneventful and warmly monotonous rhythm of another school year. Middle school felt just like elementary school, from the bus picking him up at his suburban home in a leafy cul-de-sac near the Newton-Wellesley line, to Jeremy and Charlieâs daily assault on the vendingmachine. And then after homeroom, the relentless hop from class to class, most of it mindless swatches of time to Charlie, because he was too far ahead of the curve and too smart to open his mouth when the teachers asked questions. He knew what it was like to be the kid who gave the right answer too many times.
As fascinating as the Halloween Fair with Finn and Magic had been, that had seemed to be the end of the bizarre episode; despite Magicâs farewell words, the two seventh graders had made no attempt to contact Charlie, nor had he seen either kid in the