Free Losers by Matthue Roth Page A

I’d never heard of. Several of them asked me if I remembered what had happened to them at the end of the party—and when I said no, they were duly impressed. “Wow, you must have been even more wasted than I was,” cooed this one girl, as I imagined her fingers casually winding and unwindingthe curls on my head. Without bothering to wait for my answer, she replied, “Damn, dude—you are on it,” and then turned around in her seat just in time for the teacher to call on her. She got the question wrong, but man, was I glowing.
    Meanwhile, Vadim was having his own case of the Mondays. Just as he’d been told to, he’d showed up to Dr. Mayhew’s office at 7:45, exactly half an hour before the first bell of the day. He’d knocked three times on the frosted-glass door, just below the embossed letters of Dr. Mayhew’s name. Then he’d stepped back and waited. He’d clutched his books tightly to his chest, ready to hand them back to Dr. Mayhew in a second—ready, as it were, to exchange them for the set of books applicable to the next grade up. The expression on his face (I’m imagining this part) must have been tentative, anticipatory, eager. Vadim had been moved up twice before, but never at a high school where simply being there was already a privilege. His hands must have trembled, anticipating Dr. Mayhew’s inviting look. His eyes must have never left the glass door.
    He stood there for five minutes.
    Finally, the door opened. Dr. Mayhew was just taking off his hat and jacket, ready to jump into the day. He looked vaguely disoriented as he gazed upon the impossibly small boy who stood at his door, gazing back up at him with the expectation of salvation in his eyes.
    â€œUh,” he said. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI’m Vadim Khazarimovsky,” Vadim reminded him. “We spoke on Friday about my classes being too easy?”
    If Vadim expected that fact to jog the principal’s memory, warm him up, and make them instant pals, it didn’t work. It did,however, jog his memory. Dr. Mayhew peered at him through half-lidded eyes, as if sizing him up.
    â€œSir?” said Vadim, still hopeful.
    â€œAh,” Dr. Mayhew said, itching his chin, faint with stubble. “The upstart. Yes, well, it’s good you’ve got your books out——image, my boy, image. Let me take you somewhere.”
    I was jonesing in the hallway, waiting for class to begin, when Devin Murray marched straight up to me, a stack of flyers in her hand. She didn’t even make a pretense of pretending to be too busy to talk to me until I initiated the conversation. How cool was that? She was so popular, she didn’t even have to make a thing out of being popular.
    â€œHey, Jupiter,” she said, smiling her ultra-lipsticked smile. “Good to see you. How’d you enjoy the party?”
    â€œIt was—man, I can’t even tell you, Devin,” I said, gushing earnestness at her. “Thanks so much for having me. It was really cool of you.”
    â€œGlad you came,” Devin replied airily. “Anyway, you don’t know anyone who lives in the Yards, do you?”
    I almost choked on the yes that was about to spring from my throat, forcing it back down to the depths of my esophagus with a discipline that bordered on superhuman. “I don’t think so,” I said cagily, being careful to avoid that outright no , “but I can ask around.”
    â€œWould you? That would be so cool, thanks!” She spun around a hundred and eighty degrees on one of those three-inch heels of hers, completed a quick about-face, and continued on her morning walk.
    My hand jumped up of its own accord, and I felt myselfgetting ready to reach after her. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to stay in the hall and talk to me for twenty more seconds, so maybe another forty people could pass us and realize my new status of