Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach Read Free Book Online Page B

help her. And she obviously hadn’t showered in months.
    â€œHas Andrew said anything to you, Felton? I asked his teachers if he was acting strangely or writing strange stuff. Other than his weird fight, nothing seems to be up. He’s doing fine in school. What is going on?” Jerri asked.
    â€œI don’t know.” The truth is that I hoped his weirdness would go away. I didn’t want to open another worm can. Ten months earlier, Andrew had practically lived in the garden, you know. I wanted normalcy.
    â€œShit. Do we need an intervention?” Jerri asked.
    â€œShould we call Grandma Berba?” I asked.
    â€œWhy would we do that?”
    â€œBecause…” I pictured Jerri in her bathrobe, depressed out of her freaking nut. “Because, you know?”
    â€œI’m fine. I’m great. Don’t worry about me,” Jerri said. “Let’s have an intervention right now.”
    â€œUh…” This didn’t seem like a great idea, Aleah. I did not want to go into Andrew’s room. I did think this, though: When Jerri went nuts, I tried to ignore it. That did not work. “I guess we should,” I said.
    Jerri stood fast and walked across the living room. Our new TV blared Hoarders in the background. I stood and followed her. We entered the dark hall, where just a little light was emanating from around Andrew’s cracked door. She knocked.
    Andrew said, “Who is it?”
    â€œJerri. Jerri and Felton,” she said.
    â€œ Entrez vous ,” Andrew said.
    â€œThat’s French.” Jerri nodded at me. She opened the door.
    Andrew lay on his belly on the floor. He had the big book cracked open in front of him. His glasses hung off his nose. Pamphlets with cellos and pianos and harps were scattered around him. The room smelled vaguely of maple syrup. Why? I do not know.
    He looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked.
    â€œThis is an intervention,” Jerri said.
    â€œYes,” Andrew said. “An inconvenience.”
    â€œFelton and I are worried about your behavior. You’re isolating yourself—”
    â€œAnd reading big books. What is that?” I asked, pointing to the fat thing in front of him.
    â€œSpinoza. He’s a mystical Jewish philosopher…I think,” Andrew said. “I don’t really get it all, but I’m trying.”
    â€œReading doesn’t worry me,” Jerri said.
    â€œThank heavens,” Andrew said.
    â€œYou’re not playing piano, and your isolation—”
    â€œAnd not showering!” I barked.
    â€œI shower,” Andrew said.
    â€œYou won’t talk to us,” Jerri said.
    â€œSure I will,” Andrew said. “What do you want to know?”
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing in here all the time?” Jerri asked.
    â€œLots of things.”
    â€œLike what?” Jerri asked.
    â€œTonight I’ve called Grandma Berba and asked her for money so I can go to an orchestra camp in Door County this summer. Most of the time I’m studying or reading Spinoza, which isn’t easy, Jerri.”
    â€œWait. What? ”
    â€œThe philosopher.”
    â€œAndrew, you called Grandma Berba for money?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFor a camp? What camp?”
    â€œOrchestra camp. Door County is beautiful.” Andrew nodded. “The camp is right on Lake Michigan.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you ask me for money?” Jerri barked.
    â€œGrandma Berba has more money than God,” Andrew said. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Jerri.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous. You need my permission.”
    â€œAndrew makes a good point, Jerri,” I said. “You’re starting a new career—”
    â€œShut up, Felton,” Jerri said. Her face had turned dark red.
    â€œJerri, can I go to orchestra camp this summer? It’s eight weeks. Very intensive. I’m trying to avoid my fate,” Andrew