Free Fade to Black by Alex Flinn

remember that from my fat days in grade school.
    I still don’t like books much. But now I wish I had one, like those brainiac kids who sit in the cafeteria reading. I always thought that was just sad. But now I wonder if maybe they’re reading to keep from doing nothing.
    My friends finish their lunches in record time and stand. As they pass, they look at me, but like they’re trying not to look, you know?
    “See you at football practice,” I say.
    “Will you be there?” Brett blurts, then adds, “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d be there.”
    “Sure, I will be.” But I’m thinking, Oh, God. Will they kick me off the team over this? Being a football player was pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s my life. Losing that would be worse than jail, worse than anything.
    They walk away, saying, “See you there,” except Mo, who says nothing.
    I watch them, and I get that old sinking feeling I used to get when I had no friends and used to sit alone all the time. But that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. I’ve got friends. I hang out in a pack with a bunch of guys, and they’re not just school friends, either. Practically every weekend, I’ve got something going.
    Like, this one time, couple months before Mom threw Dad out, we all drove over to Leesburg—Andy, Brett, Mo, and I. Mo had just gotten his new ride, and since there’s nothing much to do around here, we decided to head over to Leesburg.
    Problem was, there’s nothing much to do in Leesburg, neither. I mean, once you get done eating at the Pizza Hut.
    “What’s next?” Brett said. “Cow tipping?”
    “No thank you, sir.” Mo laughed. “Those cows can get mean .”
    So we were driving up and down the road, saying how dumb it was to go there, when suddenly Andy points to a Wal-Mart at the next intersection.
    “My cousin’s from Leesburg. He says that’s where everyone hangs out on Saturdays.”
    “Wal-Mart?” To me, that sounded even sadder than what we do in Pinedale, which is either hanging out at people’s houses or the parking lot of the Gas-n-Sip.
    “Like, girls will be there,” Andy said.
    “At Wal-Mart ?” I was still saying. But everyone else was down with going there, and a minute later we were pulling into the parking lot.
    No one much was inside, a bunch of moms with little kids and some guys at the snack bar who looked about as bored as we felt. For sure, no girls. After about ten minutes, looking at steering wheel covers in the automotive section, Mo said, “This is lame. Let’s cut bait.”
    “No, wait,” Andy said. “I got an idea.”
    Then, he tells us about some cousin of his (“a different cousin”) who’s a real joker. “He went to housewares and set all the alarm clocks to go off, like, one minute apart.”
    “What’s the point of that?” I said.
    But Mo was grinning. “Don’t you get it?” he said to me. “You set ’em for, like, closing time, then someone has to go turn ’em all off before they can go home.”
    I still thought it was a pretty dumb idea. But the other guys were acting like it was hilarious, so I went along. I didn’t want them thinking I was too stupid to get the joke. Really, I sort of wanted to get home. Mom was away at some judges’ convention with the guy she works for, and I wasn’t sure if Dad was with Melody, or if she was sitting home alone, watching too much TV and eating too many Oreos. But I figured I’d do it and get it over with.
    There must’ve been thirty alarm clocks, from the big superhero kind to the smallest travel alarm. When we set the last one, I said, “Okay, all done. We can go now, right?”
    “No, dumbass,” Brett said.
    “Who you calling dumbass?” I said, sort of edging closer. Brett was not one bit smarter than me.
    “You, dumbass. We have to stick around so we can watch for when they go off.”
    “But it’s like”—I looked at my watch—“almost an hour till closing.”
    “Chill, Clint,” Mo said. “You got