Californium by R. Dean Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

can’t.
I add a
Ha! But I’m going to keep writing you, if you don’t mind. It makes me feel a little better, so I hope, somehow, these are getting to you and they make you feel good too.
    .
    Monday starts with Gus/Gary knocking me sideways to catch the physics book that somehow flew out of his locker. I’m flat on the ground and he’s standing there with the book, saying it wasa close one, he
almost
got me. He’s smirking, but he sticks his hand out to help me up, so I have to say, “Thanks.”
    In Algebra, Mr. Tomita gives us the last ten minutes of class to get started on our homework. My left foot’s propped on the side rail under my chair, my knee sticking up and out into the aisle, and suddenly it tickles a little where the hole is, like a fly’s walking across my skin. Edie’s leaning forward, a blue pen in her hand, writing on me. It feels so good I pretend not to notice until she’s done and it reads,
Statement.
    â€œYou think I’m making a fashion statement?”
    It’s quiet a second until she whispers, “Just a statement.”
    I turn around and she’s got an
I know the answers you have to look up
smile. “What kind of statement?” I say, and Mr. Tomita shushes me from his desk, staring until we make eye contact. His chin moves down just a fraction but he doesn’t say anything. It’s a warning. A minute later a folded paper crinkles against my arm. Without looking up, I reach back and grab it. It’s a drawing of a guy in ripped jeans, an untucked shirt, and a jacket. There’s one of those cartoon bubbles above for what he’s saying, only he’s not saying anything. There’s just an exclamation point.
    I make a question mark next to it and slide it back. The paper crinkles and swishes a little like Edie’s smoothing it over, but it never comes back.
    When the bell rings, I turn around. “An exclamation point?”
    Edie picks up her books and starts walking for the door. “Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œHow can I not worry about it?”
    â€œJust don’t.” She stops next to the door. “Come on.”
    She’s going in the opposite direction from my next class, but I walk with her anyway. “Tell me.”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    â€œWhat my fashion statement is?”
    Her voice goes pretend serious. “Yes, Reece. What
is
your fashion statement?”
    We stop by the staircase. Gobs of people are bobbing down the steps like a waterfall. A couple freshmen are trouting their way up, getting knocked all over the place, which is their own fault. Unless you’re Treat’s size, you’ve got to wait until most of the people coming down clear out, because not only are they merciless; they’ve got gravity on their side.
    â€œI haven’t really thought about my clothes as a statement,” I say.
    â€œThat’s kind of what they’re saying.”
    â€œNothing?”
    â€œUh-huh. A big exclamation point with nothing in front of it.” She hands me the folded-up paper from her pocket and jumps into the stream of people heading up the stairs. “See you later.”
    I unfold the paper and it’s just the same as it was, the guy in the ripped jeans with nothing to say. On the way to English, I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket, keeping it safe from I don’t know what.
    Treat’s already in the classroom when I get there, and people are staring at him since they’ve never seen the Mohawk before. He nods at my new/old clothes and a couple people look over at me, probably wondering how I’m friends with this guy. It feels pretty good, so when Treat says me and Keith should meet him inthe Bog at lunch, I’m all for it even though I don’t know what the Bog is.
    .
    The Bog, Keith tells me, is the middle of the quad where there’s trees and shrubs in these big planters, really nice except they water it