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

constantly so it’s always muddy. Upperclassmen get all the spots around the edges, so freshmen get stuck in the Bog.
    For the most part, the upperclassmen couldn’t be bothered with you at lunch unless you cut across their grass or sit too close to the planters up against the library, the Senior Circle. But as Treat’s cutting across the quad in front of the Senior Circle, guys in letterman jackets just stare at him.
    When Treat gets to the Bog he throws up a hand. “What’s up?”
    â€œA preposition,” Keith says.
    Treat grabs Keith’s shirt in back and yanks it up. Keith looks like a dog waiting to get smacked and Treat says, “You don’t tuck that in.” Keith doesn’t even move, and Treat claps his shoulder. “You gotta get the rest. I’m not sticking my hand down your pants.”
    Keith tugs and pulls real fast, his shirt flying up like a mushroom cloud until it settles back down, completely untucked and, really, looking a lot better.
    Me and Keith tell Treat about the Howdy Dance and then we all talk about our old junior highs. Treat went to a private school, uniforms and everything. “I finally told my parents to save their money because if I had to go one more year I’d get myself kicked out again.”
    He says it so relaxed it takes me a second to realize he said “again.”
    â€œThat’s balls out,” Keith says.
    â€œI guess,” Treat says. “Listen, you guys should come to my house today after school.”
    â€œYeah?” I say. “What’s up?”
    Treat laughs. “A preposition.” He punches Keith on the shoulder nice and solid, which looks pretty painful, but Keith gives it a tight smile. “Nah, it’ll be bitchin’ is all.” He snatches some paper from a guy sitting near us and draws a map. “Bring your bathing suits.”
    .
    Me and Keith are pacing around the PE lockers, wondering if we should try and get out of going to Treat’s since even in California you don’t go swimming with a guy you just met. We’re coming around the corner by the varsity room when the bell rings and Petrakis is there waiting for us.
    â€œCome here, little dudes,” he says. “You friends with that Mohawk guy?”
    We both nod.
    Petrakis glances at me and back to Keith. “You tell that guy if he wants to come out for football, there’s still time. Got it?” He slaps Keith on the back, solid, and pushes him toward the door. “Now, get the fuck out of here.”
    When we get to the quad, Keith says, “I’m going.”
    â€œTo Treat’s?”
    â€œYeah.” His head moves up and down a few times, fast and short. “I don’t care if you go or not; I’m going.”
    â€œI’ll go.”
    â€œGood,” Keith says, “because that guy scares me,” and I don’t know if he means Treat or Petrakis. Probably both.
    .
    Me and Keith hop my back wall to cut through the park and get across Yorba Linda Boulevard. The hills start dropping off into the canyon on that side of the street and you can tell the houses are older because there’s no pattern to them. Sometimes there isn’t even a house next door, just a field and horse fence.
    Treat’s house doesn’t look any bigger than mine, but it’s all one story and spread out wide. We put our bathing suits on in the bathroom next to the kitchen and Treat leads us straight out the glass sliding door to the backyard. It must be forty yards to the back fence, only there’s no pool. Right before the yard drops back into the hill again, there’s a wooden deck about three feet off the ground with a big, octagon-shaped bathtub sunk in the middle of it.
    â€œCool,” Keith says. “A hot tub.”
    Treat shakes him off. “Jacuzzi.” He turns this dial in the back corner of the deck and the thing comes to life like a boiling pot of pasta. Here it is,