Stoner & Spaz Read Free

just as tidy as the rest of the house: no socks on the floor, no underpants hanging from the doorknob. I look at my favorite poster, the one I wanted to put up with thumbtacks, the one Grandma had framed for me instead. James Dean looks back, clearly disappointed in me.
    So I open the bottom drawer of my desk, frown at the number I transferred from my wrist, and dial.
    “Is this Colleen?”
    “Yeah. Who’s this?”
    “Ben Bancroft.”
    “Who?”
    “We went to the movies together last night. And then you hurled out the window of my grandma’s car.”
    “Jesus, how’d you get my number?”
    “You gave it to me. You wanted to know the plot of
The Great Gatsby.
I thought you had to write a paper.”
    She takes some time to process this. “Oh, yeah.” Then she says, “So, okay — tell me the story.”
    I fill her in about Nick and Daisy and Tom, the yellow car, and the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock.
    When I’m done she says, “Just write it for me.”
    “Get serious.”
    “I am serious, Ben. I’ll never remember all that. Just do it; it only has to be, like, one page. You’ve got a computer, right?”
    “Yeah, but . . .”
    “So knock it out: why is Gatsby great, who shot who where? You know the drill.”
    “But that’s cheating.”
    “Right. And . . . ?”
    “I barely know you. Why should I cheat for you?”
    “Because then I’ll show you my tits.”
     
    THE PIT IS REALLY THE HEART OF MY HIGH SCHOOL. Everybody turns up there to talk or smoke or eat or just hang out. The skateboarders like falling down the wide, amphitheater-type steps, the stoners like lying in the sun, the writers take turns reading from their journals, the cheerleaders prance around in their little orange-and-black skirts.
    I find myself a spot on the top steps opposite the completely vandalized tables and the vending machines, each one in its own little jail.
    I’m in a good mood. Okay, Colleen’s using me. But at least I’m in the soup, you know? In the mix. Anything is better than lying on my cowboy bedspread with the remote in my one good hand.
    Waiting there I feel, I don’t know, anthropological, I guess. I just need a pair of binoculars and a field guide to watch Ed Dorn in his black jeans and black T-shirt make the rounds, moving from the gangstas in their huge pants through the Mexican tough guys and into the Asian kung-fu fighters. Each clique has a different handshake, and Ed knows them all. He knows which girl’s hand to grab and rub over his shaved head, which brother to joke with, which guy’s Pepsi to snatch and take a sip of, which one to lean into and whisper. Colleen walks a few steps behind. She wears knee-high silver boots and looks like someone from a different galaxy.
    When Ed saunters toward his gym class, a few girls follow Colleen into the girls’ bathroom. I take my book bag and lurch to one of the tables facing the exit. When Colleen comes out, I want to be the first thing she sees: sitting down I look almost normal.
    I’m stationed just a few yards from the resident anarchists — both of them done up in spiked hair, boots, and bondage pants — when Stephanie Brewer walks up to them. She takes out her notebook. “Can I ask you guys some questions for the
Courier
?”
    Danny looks at Robert. Robert looks at Danny. They grin.
    “Can I ask about your boots? Do those white laces stand for White Power?”
    They glance down. “The laces keep our shoes on, man.”
    “What are your outfits supposed to mean, then?”
    “That we’re in revolt.”
    “Exactly,” says Danny. “We’re in revolt against things like oppression.”
    “By whom?”
    “Well, duh — the oppressors.”
    “I understand that,” she says, “but which ones? Men oppressing women, whites oppressing blacks, straights and gays, guards and prisoners, China and Tibet?”
    Robert nods. “All that, man.”
    She asks them to stand up and turn around then because they’re both wearing white shirts with the sleeves