The Best Man Read Free Page A

your best friend better never be a girl unless you
are
a girl. But there sat Lynette Stanley with hardly any space between us, talking my ear off. And when people began to notice we were best friends, I might just as well put on a dress and throw myself backward off the monkey bars.
    And there on Lynette’s other side was Natalie Schuster. And Lynette had already crossed her.
Teachers
didn’t cross Natalie. Even the kindergarten teacher’s aide hadn’t crossed her.
    â€œIs she going to give me trouble?” Lynette asked me before the circle broke up.
    â€œMaybe, maybe not. Just don’t throw around too many big words where she can hear.”
    And across the circle was Jackson Showalter, hunkered down and blowing his nose with his thumb. He had trouble written all over him, along with a lot of stuff inked on his arms. His shifty eyes scanned the circle.
    â€œJust do me one favor,” I said to Lynette. “Don’t save me.”
    â€œFrom what?”
    â€œFrom whatever. You know what I mean. Like you did you-know-when. At the wedding.”
    â€œRight,” Lynette said. “Save yourself.”
    â€œAlso, later on, when we have phones, you will never text me. Okay?”
    â€œDeal,” said Lynette.
    And now I was pretty sure Jackson Showalter’s narrow eyes were on me, where I sat next to Lynette Stanley, with Natalie Schuster on her other side.

4
    J ackson Showalter took eight months to get around to me. Keeping out of his way gave me a busy winter. By now he’d shaved his head and inked a lot more stuff on his arms. Not words. I don’t know if he knew any words. By April the rest of us could read, more or less. We were all heading for Captain Underpants and punctuation, except for Jackson, who was heading for me.
    I have an April birthday, April 23, which is the date in 1914 when a major-league ball game was first played in Wrigley Field. So it was my birthday, and I made the mistake of wearing my best present to school the next day.
    My uncle Paul gave it to me: a scaled-downChicago Cubs home jersey with the Wrigley Field hundred-year patch on the sleeve. A collector’s item already. Uncle Paul’s gifts are always the best. When I was twelve, I was going to get the coolest suit in Chicago from him, from Ralph Lauren on Michigan Avenue. But that gets ahead of the story.
    I wore the Cubs jersey to school the day after my birthday. Then I had to use the restroom. You see where this is going. But I had to. Mrs. Bird gave me a restroom pass. When I got there, I went into a stall, though I didn’t have to sit down. But I like my privacy.
    I was just done when a foot kicked the stall door open.
    I whirled around, and Jackson Showalter and I were face-to-face. I had the restroom pass, but he didn’t need one. He roamed the halls at will.
    He wasn’t any taller than I was. He may have been a little shorter that spring. But he was like a fireplug with fists. And he was hanging with second graders, which is never a good sign. Now we were out by the sinks. We were still little guys. We had to look up to see the mirror.
    But Jackson was between me and the door and getting bigger.
    â€œDude,” he said, “I’ll need your shirt.”
    â€œMy uncle Paul gave me this shirt,” I said, like that would do me any good.
    â€œSkin out of it.”
    â€œI don’t have anything on underneath.”
    He thought about making me swap shirts with him, but he decided against it. Moons and stars were on his arms. I figured I’d be seeing stars any minute now. He reached down toward his ankle with his eyes tight on me.
    He came up with a knife. Not as big as the hunting knife, but a pocketknife that was all business.
    He opened it, and the overhead light bounced off the blade.
    â€œHow’d you get that past the security guard?” I said in a wobbly voice.
    â€œIn my sock,” he said with quiet pride. Jackson was never going to be