Free Stupid Fast by Geoff Herbach Page A

with me all the time, and I hated them for it. That’s why I spent an hour drawing a picture of Ken Johnson getting shot with bottle rockets two nights before.
    “Carry yourself the way you really are, though, and it won’t happen.”
    “How am I really?” God, I said stupid stuff. Pee-smelling Cody could’ve made shit of me, but he didn’t.
    “Here’s the truth, Reinstein. Without ever setting foot on a football field, you’re a Division I prospect. You’ve got unbelievable speed and a big frame. I’ll never have any of what you’ve got.”
    “No. I’m a beanpole. You heard Ken.”
    “You’re maybe a beanpole for an eighteen-year-old but not for a fifteen-year-old. You’re just plain big for a fifteen-year-old.”
    “That makes sense.”
    “So carry yourself like a real athlete, and everyone will treat you that way. Okay? I’ll let everybody know that you are a serious D-I prospect and then you just act that way.”
    “Uh huh,” I said.
    The voice in my head was still barking at me a little. It was going on about how I was eating Jerri and Andrew.
    Then Cody stopped climbing and grabbed my arm, which shocked me out of my head completely.
    “But you have to do something for me. You have to lift weights and practice all summer. You have to learn the playbook. If you do, we’re going to be unstoppable come fall. That’s what I want. I want to be unstoppable. We’ve got a huge line. Karpinski’s sort of an ass, but he’s an awesome receiver. I’ll get him the ball. And you? With you, Reinstein? Nobody’s gonna know what hit ’em. Jamie is going to be pissed to lose his spot, but you’re our tailback, Reinstein. No doubt. Will you work hard?”
    “Yeah,” I nodded. I meant it.
    “Thanks, man.”
    Cody looked deep into my eyes. It was sort of weird. I got a surge of adrenaline.
    “I really appreciate it,” he said.
    I swallowed hard. I seriously meant it. I’d work my ass off.
    We started climbing again toward the weight room, and I thought.
    Who is Jamie? Oh, Jamie…Jamie…Jamie Dern…honky…grade older than me…dentist’s son. Have I ever said a word to him? Is he in the weight room now? What the hell would Gus think about this? He’d hate it. He’d make mean jokes. Should I tell him? He might not even respond to my email. I don’t have to tell him anything. Why don’t I hate it? Why do I want to do what Cody says? How did I get so damn big? When will I stop growing hair? What if I keep growing and growing and growing? What if I turn into King Kong? (Accidentally smash Ken Johnson?) What if I have to move to an island away from people because I crush them if I live among them?
    We popped into the putrid-smelling weight room.
    “When’s your birthday, Reinstein? It’s coming up, right?”
    “July 31st.”
    “I’m going to throw you a party.”
    “Oh, thanks.” I wasn’t sure I liked the idea.
    And then we lifted weights. Jamie Dern was up there, pumping it like the rest of the yahoos. At one point, after a couple poop-stinkers prodded him, he came over to where me and Cody were. He said he wouldn’t give up his spot without a fight, but he didn’t look mad or anything. Maybe he looked relieved? He actually shook my hand. And even though I could keep up, pumping weight and shouting gah and sweating and stinking and lifting because I’m apparently naturally strong, at the end, I was so exhausted that I could barely walk.
    “That’s what I’m talking about! That’s what I’m talking about!” Cody shouted.
    Sort of couldn’t walk. Before we left, Cody made me go down to the gym. He handed me a basketball. He said, “Dunk it, Reinstein.”
    “I can’t. I can barely touch the net.”
    “No. Dunk it.”
    I looked up. Half the honkies of the world were hanging over the weight room railing, staring down at me. I got a burst of adrenaline. I bounced the ball once, looked up at the rim, took about five steps, sprung up, and stuffed the ball through hard with my right