Loner by Teddy Wayne Read Free Book Online Page A

hadn’t said I’d loved her, I’d only thanked her, but it fell on deaf ears. By the end of recess it had become gospel in the class that David F. said he was in love with Jessica.
    The next day I noticed a rancid stench in my cubby as I took my winter jacket out for recess. After I zipped it up, I felt dampness on my back.
    â€œEww!” Scott shouted after our teacher had led the first wave of students out of the room. “David peed himself!”
    His cronies howled with disgusted delight. Compounding my humiliation was that I was, in fact, an occasional bed wetter. It must have been a coincidence that he’d chosen that way to debase me,though at the time it didn’t seem like one, and, feeling outed, I never reported anything to our teacher; I just wanted the incident to go away.
    Those two episodes apparently quenched Scott’s thirst for cruelty, as he did nothing else the rest of the year. Still, I developed a precautionary habit of sniffing my jacket before putting it on every single time, and my fears of additional torment manifested themselves in stomachaches each morning. My parents asked what was wrong, why I kept making excuses to get out of school. As much as I craved justice, I refused to tattle. Openly admitting my status as a target of bullies would authenticate it on the deepest of levels.
    Scott’s family moved away the next year. That he had gotten into Harvard came as a shock. He hadn’t distinguished himself as a student, and I’d always assumed he would grow up into the sort of druggie who fried his brain with pot while supplying it at a suburban markup to his deep-pocketed classmates.
    After refilling my cup with gin—just gin—I retreated to the opposite corner of the room, blending into the nubby white wall. Once I had enough alcohol in my system I was ready to initiate a confrontation. I advanced toward him, armed with my opening line: Scott, it’s David Federman. Remember me?
    But I shouldn’t have had to jog his memory, shouldn’t have had to be the one to approach; he should see me, feel guilty, and come up and beg forgiveness. I stopped before infiltrating his ring and stared at him.
    We briefly made eye contact before he returned to his conversation. Not a flicker of recognition.
    I was one of a few dozen forgettable boys he’d arbitrarily victimized over the years, and after a while we’d all become constituent parts of one effete, thin-wristed composite, a chorus of panicky titters preceding whatever indignity we were about to suffer.
    Maybe the experience had made me more sensitive, more academically focused, and I’d been rewarded with acceptance toHarvard; that was fine. But if the world were really fair, people like him would be punished for their loutish misdeeds, not given the same prize. The Scott Tuppers should have been banished to community college.
    I stumbled home through a ginny fog, somehow fit my key into the lock, and sprawled on my bed. Drunken sleep had nearly overtaken me when I heard a sound like an army of mewling mice from Steven’s room. Once I’d started to pay attention, it was too loud for me to fall asleep, so I hoisted myself up to investigate and put my ear to his door.
    It wasn’t rodents; it was his bouncing bedsprings.
    Subatomic Steven was having sex his first week of college. And I was forced to listen to it.

    I woke up for the beginning of shopping period with my first hangover and groggily dropped in on an art history lecture, The ­Renaissance to Impressionism, chosen purely for its convenient location. Smaller classes would have been a better way to make friends outside of the Matthews Marauders, but I hadn’t applied in advance for any of the freshman seminars, which winnowed out dispassionate students by requiring an essay attesting to one’s interest in the subject.
    When I saw you poised to leave Annenberg at lunch, holding your tray aloft, it occurred to me