Jeremy Stone Read Free

creeps at school.
    But then we had this
    little argument,
    Caitlan and me.
    And we stopped
    talking.
    And I got stubborn.
    Felt isolated.
    All alone
    and
    weak.
    He smelled it.
    He knew I was weak.
    He pretended to
    be my friend.
    Told me things about Caitlan that were not true.
    Who did?
    Thomas Heaney.
    Paper Clip, I said.
    I call him Paper Clip.
    He had some of his buddies
    say all kinds of weird crap about me.
    And Thomas
    told Caitlan some stuff about me
    that wasn’t true.
    I stopped going to school.
    I should have been angry
    and fought it.
    Sometimes it’s not that easy, I said.
    Instead, I got weaker.
    And then I got a text message
    that came from
    Caitlan.
    At least it came from her phone
    and it said
    we were over
    and she was going out with Thomas Heaney.
    Fuckin’ Paper Clip.

Just Standing Around in the Drizzle Talking to a Dead Dude
    That pretty much sums up the situation
    but I knew Jenson wasn’t just here to shoot the shit.
    So, Jenson, what now?
    I need you to help set things straight with Caitlan.
    She can’t hear you
    or see you
    like me?
    No. I tried. I really did.
    She might not believe me.
    She might think I’m damaged in the head.
    Many people do. Lots of people.
    But she likes you, Jeremy.
    She’s pretty intense.
    That’s one of the things I like about her.
    Me too, I said,
    although I realized now
    that maybe he’d see
    I really did “like”
    her.
    I guess you could
    say I
    had a
    crush.
    I was thinking
    maybe I shouldn’t
    get involved
    with this Jenson Hayes.
    I guess Jenson saw the look on my face.
    Jeremy, he said. Old Man told me
    to tell you that you should
    always drink
    from the mountain stream
    and not
    city water.
    Of course.
    I knew what Old Man was saying.
    Sometimes my grandfather
    can be a pain in the ass.
    But we really have to do something
    about Thomas.
    Revenge? I asked.
    That didn’t sound right.
    My grandfather never
    believed in revenge.
    He never even spoke of getting revenge
    against all the Europeans who stole our
    land and fucked up
    a sweet way of life.
    No, dude. Not revenge.
    We need to change him
    so he can see
    the light.

Back With the Living
    Final period at school French class
    I am wondering why I am learning French
    and not the language of
    my grandparents. Old Man
    kept trying to explain to me when I was young
    that what language you use shapes the way you think.
    English, he said, is
    a language of things. Every thing has to have a name.
    Our old tongue
    was better at showing relationships. Even people’s identity
    showed connections. Your name
    in the old language would not be Jeremy Stone
    but something else
    and you would be
    â€œBoy with strength and rock-hard courage
    but kind heart.”
    I thought he was goofing
    but maybe not.
    OM also told me
    there were no curse words
    in our old language.
    When you wanted to curse someone
    and say something really unkind, he said,
    you had to use English ’cause
    there are so many really unkind words
    in that language.
    Language expresses the heart and soul of a culture,
    he lectured to me when I was young
    but he could tell I wasn’t paying good attention.
    Funny to think that that was
    way back when
    my grandfather still had a body
    to put clothes on each morning.
    Someday, he’d say,
    I’ll have to give back this ole body you see here.
    It’s only borrowed, he said,
    to trap my spirit for a little while
    so I can walk upright
    and give advice to my
    grandson.

Thomas Heaney in French Class
    I knew it was too soon to confront
    Paper Clip. And I knew he’d be pissed
    at me
    for beating him fair and square in wrestling.
    He saw me looking at him
    and shot me
    a really nasty look. Silently mouthed something that must have been Fuck You Indian.
    Well, at least he didn’t think I was Italian anymore.
    Just then, Ms. Framboise
    called on me
    â€™cause I wasn’t paying attention.
    Monsieur Stone, she said, or perhaps you would be