Rock Star Read Free

basketball team and the football team. But now he just plays guitar and sings in rock bands. The girls are all crazy about him.
    “Jason. Jay. J-man. You shouldn’t have done that.” I’m a little pissed.
    “I know. But it’s all good. I emailed him. I pretended I was you. He said he wants to meet you.”
    I look over at Grant. He’s got one of his rocker friends in a headlock a few tables down. Grant’s laughing like crazy. The girls at the next table are laughing too. Not at him. But laughing like they think Grant’s cool and all.
    “Jesus,” I say.
    For the next five minutes, Jason lists all the reasons why I should walk over and introduce myself. Mostly, it’s all about how I like music and would love to be in a band. It’s true. I’d really, really like to be in a rock band. Plus, you can only play bass guitar in the dorky school orchestra for so long.
    But I feel nervous and just plain scared about walking over to Grant— Mr. Popularity, Mr. Rock and Roll. I hate to say it, but I’m not that popular. I’m pretty shy. I don’t feel cool enough to just walk over.
    It’s a funny thing, but sometimes I feel okay about myself. And sometimes I wonder if I’m some kind of freak. I mean, if you’re a weirdo, you probably don’t realize it, right? Otherwise, why would you act like that? Nobody says to himself, “Hey…I want to be really weird in my day-to-day life.” For weird people, weirdness is normal.
    So what if I’m weird and everyone knows it except me? And it’s the kind of thing no one will explain to you. Like, no one’s going to say, “Hey, Duncan, I don’t know if you realize it, but you are a weirdo and, in fact, some kind of total freak.” You ever feel like that? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I am a freak.
    Plus, my clothing choice today isn’t so good. In fact, it’s pretty bad. I’m wearing these old jeans that are way too small for me. They’re like flood pants, about two inches too short. And I’m wearing an Oak Bay High T-shirt that seemed like a good idea when I bought it, but turned out to be way too tight after my dad washed it. So basically I look like a dorky little kid in these retarded, miniature clothes.
    “Just walk over,” says Jason. “Come on. Go.”
    I actually want to. I really do. So I make myself get up and walk toward Grant’s table. That’s not like me. It feels like I’m in a dream or something. Like it’s not really me. Like I’m floating.
    About halfway over, I trip, hitting my knees and hands hard. I get up, my face is burning. I can hear people laughing, lots of people. Everything’s in slow motion. All my senses are on red alert. I can smell tuna sandwich and greasy French fries. Someone must have tripped me. I look over, and sure enough there’s this fat dude in a rugby shirt with a big fat face, laughing at me. His leg’s still sticking out. He’s pointing to it, laughing like a hyena.
    I don’t know why—I’ve never done this before—but I swing at the guy. Crazy. I connect too, hitting the side of his jumbo pumpkin noggin. Things are happening fast now. He punches me right in the mouth, then lands another on my forehead. I try to slug the guy again, but just then someone pins my arms behind me. Mr. McGregor. Ow.
    “Break it up, McCann,” he says.
    “But he tripped me!”
    “Break it up. Both of you. I mean it. Or I’ll send you to the principal’s office. Now.”
    The guy in the rugby shirt stops short for a second. Then he shakes his head, laughs and goes back to talking to his buddies. Just like nothing happened.
    For some reason, maybe because I’m already halfway there, I walk the rest of the way to the Grant’s table. Even though I’m embarrassed and feeling weird and beat-up and like a total freak. Everyone at the table is looking at me like something funny’s going on. Which I guess it is.
    “Hey,” I say.
    Nobody says anything.
    “Hey,” I say again, but louder. I feel like I’m on stage.
    Grant looks at me.