Free Betting Blind by Stephanie Guerra Page A

where I was going to apply, and even throwing out “Florida State,” which she loved because she once dated a guy who played football there.
    I stood up and slung my backpack over my shoulder.
    Ms. T. said in a gentler voice, “Don’t give up on yourself, Gabe. Those analytical scores on your ninth-grade battery were good. With tutoring, I know you can pull up your grades.”
    I looked at the door, waiting for her to let me go.
    “And please, think a little more about college.”
    I felt my neck getting hot. Why should I think about college? Everybody acted like it gave you a passport into the Real Person Club, instead of an expensive-ass brainwashing.
    “Gabe?”
    I walked out before she had a chance to say anything else.

    When Kyle stopped to get books before study hall, I was waiting at his locker. “Hey, man,” he said, sounding surprised.
    “Did your parents already leave for Sonoma?” I asked.
    “Yeah, this morning.”
    “Let’s bail and start the party early. I can’t handle math right now.”
    He grinned and started dialing his lock. “Done.”
    A few minutes later, I was tailing Kyle’s Jeep down the I-405. We hit Bartell’s first. He wasn’t messing around; he filled up a cart with candy, Vicks, a pack of binkies, orange juice, sherbet, glow sticks, a musical top with flashing lights, light-up Hacky Sacks, and Christmas lights.
    After paying for everything, Kyle kicked me half a G for the e and Oxies. I felt a little bad about making such a big profit. But if I gave him a discount this time, he’d wonder why I hadn’t done it before, and it would be confusing. It was his parents’ money, anyway.
    Then we headed to his place to set up. Kyle lived in a modern house that looked like somebody took a giant cement box, cut windows in it, and dropped it in the middle of the White House lawn. There were some ugly Lego-looking bushes and a jelly bean–shaped pool, but the inside was dope. The staircase looked like it was floating, and the carpet was made out of thick white stuff like grass from another planet.
    Kyle got busy picking out tracks and setting up a candy buffet. The colors had to be in order from light to dark: Lemonheads all the way to Junior Mints. Kyle was like that. He seemed chill, but he was actually a freak about organization.
    I sipped a beer and mostly let him do it. I was feeling kind of messed up about the talk with Ms. T. College. That word was eating through my brain.
    Ms. T. had looked so shocked when I said I wasn’t going. I’d known for a while, and I was fine with it. But being around all these trust-fund kids was messing with me. You could just tell they would stick their head in an oven if they didn’t get into college—and not just any old college, but Stanford or something.
    FDF. Fucking Dimwit Fool. I looked at Mr. 4.0 Rower, setting out a drug buffet, and I wanted to know how he did it. How did he stay focused? Remember what he read? Fill in the right bubbles? Were there tricks?
    But it wasn’t the kind of thing you could ask.
    I drank my beer fast and opened another. Kyle put on some tunes, and pretty soon the girls arrived in a pack—Erin and Becky and three others, who were mad fine but off-limits because Becky had staked me out. Girls have secret laws like that, and it screws things up for us guys pretty good.
    We all took our pills right away and just hung around, waiting for them to kick in. Everybody except Matt. Dude was straighter than a ruler. I knew he’d leave in a little while; he didn’t like being around trashed people.
    Kyle went into Host Boy mode, handing out candy and party favors. Forrest and Matt got into some argument about MIDI, and what would have happened if somebody had invented a different computer language for music first. This girl Samantha was practically sitting on Forrest’s lap, and another girl, Melanie, was leaning against Matt, but they might as well have been pillows with boobs and hair for all the attention Matt and