Free Sons of the 613 by Michael Rubens Page A

have to fight my way through. I need to catch up to Josh, and I need to pee, and it’s like a nightmare where your feet are sinking into the ground and you can’t move forward. I detour around a fat guy and squeeze through a tight circle of girls, mumbling apologies as I go. I hear someone say, “Check that kid out,” and I try to speed up, only to run into a herd of guys heading from the bar, one of them slopping beer on me from a pint glass when I bump into him.
    â€œHey, watch it!” he says, and I squeak some more sorries as I backpedal away and bump into someone else. Rough hands grab my shoulders and spin me around, and Patrick the Meth-Dealing Punk’s face looms in front of my own.
    â€œWhat’s up, li’l dude!” he bellows, his acrid breath stinking of liquor and what I guess to be a cheeseburger and fries that are decomposing in his stomach. “Your bro’s, like, friggin’ awesome, dude! He’s the friggin’ shit! He’s, like—”
    â€œI gotta go!” I say, and I mean it in more ways than one. I go around him and get another jarring pat on the head, his rings making a knocking sound on my skull.
    I swim upstream through the hordes of people coming in the front door and finally make it outside, gulping for air.
    Josh is gone. For a moment I can’t remember if we came from the left or the right, and I’m lost and unprotected and have to pee so bad I almost want to wet my pants.
    I pick a direction, realize it’s the wrong one, and double back. I make it around the corner and spot the car with relief. Josh is sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting.
    I open the passenger door and lean in.
    â€œI have to pee,” I say, hopping from foot to foot.
    He doesn’t respond, just gestures roughly toward the wall behind me.
    Cursing, I find the spot farthest away from the pool of illumination cast by the street lamp. I’m picturing being caught in the sudden blinding light from a police cruiser, like on
Cops,
and it takes me forever to start peeing and then forever to stop. A car goes by and honks. I cut off the flow and zip up and racewalk back to the car, my face flushed.
    Josh puts the car in gear before I’ve even closed the door and accelerates away from the curb, still without saying a word.
    â€œYou were going to leave me in the club,” I say angrily as we pull onto the highway. He doesn’t respond. I sit back in my seat and cross my arms, mad.
    We drive in silence until we get home. When we pull into the garage I follow him wordlessly to the door to go inside.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” he says.
    â€œAsshole,” I mutter, repeating it as I trudge out of the garage, walk around the side of the house, into the backyard, and climb into my tent.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
TUESDAY, 9:03 A.M., TWENTY-THREE MINUTES LATE TO HOMEROOM
    â€œI’m gonna get expelled. I’m going to get expelled. I’m going to get—”
    â€œIsaac, would you shut up, already? You’re not going to get expelled.”
    â€œI have perfect attendance!”
    â€œHad.”
    â€œI was going to get a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Jerry’s!”
    â€œIce cream is bad for you.”
    â€œWhere are you driving us? What are we doing?”
    â€œYou’ll see. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
    Oh, God.

CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ARRIVAL OF LESLEY MCDOUGAL
    Â 
    M ERIT B ADGE : L OVE AT F IRST S IGHT
    I had figured that after our late night I’d be getting a reprieve from my early-morning workout session. I was wrong. Josh dragged me from the tent at six A.M. for our run and calisthenics and wrestling, mostly him tossing me around while I lay there like a rag doll. This led to threats of more pushups unless I put forth some real effort. More effort was forthput.
    Standard hostage-situation conversation with parents, Josh looking on to make sure I stuck to the script. More urging from my