Stupid Fast by Geoff Herbach Read Free Book Online

Nut,” that idiot Reese said.
    Right then and there I thought I would barf. I felt my insides twist and upheave into upchuck position, and my eyes bulged out of my head and I got instantly sweaty, and I opened my mouth and almost said “Om shanti” but actually said “Gotta go.” I took off jogging, with jerky Ken Johnson and chuckleheaded Jason Reese, horrible honkies both, laughing behind me.
    Okay. Here’s the change.
    Laughing at me? I mean, what the hell? Why? What did I do?
    Man. Piss me off. Seriously.
    What the hell are they laughing about?
    Piss. Me. Off.
    I was so mad, I almost barfed. This was new. Generally, I barfed (or almost barfed) from being scared, not mad.
    As I ran back to the pool house, I felt it. As I entered the building, I seriously felt it. I had to stop running. Once inside, I took two big steps and stopped cold right in the middle of the changing room, right in front of the little naked boys and their dads. No. Didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to barf. Didn’t want to bahhh like a sheep in front of these people. Not for any reason, mad or scared.
    I was so freaking mad!
    Piss. Me. Off.
    What in the hell are you laughing at?
    And I did not barf. Why? Because the voice in my head got huge. Instead of calling me an idiot, it called the honkies names. “You gonna let these weak-ass dipshits control your biology? You gonna let the pig pricks make you barf? You should make them barf. They should see you and barf and barf because they’re so scared. Don’t take this crap from honkies.”
    Yeah, voice! Yeah! That’s a good voice!
    I breathed deep and then walked the hell out of the pool house, slow and controlled, my head held high. I went right over to my bike to ride it home. Then I turned, just as slow and controlled, and walked back into the pool house almost hoping I’d see that jerk Ken Johnson again. Then I picked up my T-shirt and flip-flops from the basket, which I’d forgotten to do the first time I left the pool house. Then I left for real, got my Varsity, and rode it home, slow and angry, shaking my head slow, repeating this fine little mantra: “I’m gonna make you barf. I’m gonna make you barf. I’m gonna make you barf.” That’s a little different than om shanti shanti shanti , which is about peace, not terror. Oh hell no. “I’m gonna make you barf.” That’s not Jerri’s mantra.
    No peace, no justice. I’m gonna make you barf.
    Hey! Ho! I’m gonna make you barf!
    I, Felton Reinstein, was hot. Seriously hot. Boiling angry. Me, a good, very fast, potentially funny young man, with no naturally occurring ill intent toward anyone, had been completely mistreated forever. I’d had enough.
    Hell no! We won’t go! I’m gonna make you barf!
    I rode slow past dumb little houses and the ugly little golf course, simmering and steaming. I got to our drive and pedaled slow up the hill. When I made it to the garage, I stepped off my bike and let it drop right there.
    “Goddamn chuckleheaded honkies,” I said, pausing for effect, folding my arms across my chest.
    Jerri shouted from the garden, “Felton, Coach Johnson just called.”
    But then the voice in my head said something extremely important: “Wait. Wait. It’s not just the honkies. It’s not just fat ass Reese or that jerk Ken Johnson. What about Peter Yang?”
    What? Peter Yang? Peter freaking Yang.
    “Honkies are not the only problem,” I shouted.
    “What?” Jerri called from the garden.
    I walked up and into the front door of the house, past Andrew plunking the piano like a robot, then down into the basement, where I called Peter’s house. Mrs. Yang answered with her Chinese accent.
    “Is Peter there?”
    “No. He went with Mindy to play the game.”
    “The game, huh? You tell him Felton called.”
    “Okay.”
    “You tell him he’s a damn jerk, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    And then Mrs. Yang hung up.
    That’s right, Mrs. Yang. The truth hurts.
    Then I didn’t really know what to do with myself, with