Free The Boy Who Called God "She" by Nancy Springer Page B

Brent was threatening his life. Dumb fruit-for-hair. Hell, who cares about getting sent to the office? If it was Brent or me, we would strut out. Three times and you get paddled, so what? They gotta do better than that to make me orderly and disciplined. I see Julian in the hall before lunch. His hair is wet and slicked down on his head. So I give him a shove. “Hey, rat face, you need a crying towel?”
    He just looks at me, and all of a sudden I notice his eyes, sky gray, so calm and deep they’re freaky.
    Brent comes up and whacks him on the back of the head and starts to say—
    I don’t know what. Because Julian spins around and shoves Brent so hard he slams him against the lockers. And before I can blink he grabs me like no damn problem and slams me alongside of Brent. Knocks the breath out of me. Next thing I know he has a hand under my chin and slides me up the locker slick as an elevator. Brent too. He lifts both of us right off our feet.
    The whole hallway is dead white-hole silent, nobody moving, everybody watching. I can hear my heart pounding and I’m trying to breathe and I can’t even think to use my hands, I’m just hoping Julian will let me down soon now please.
    He says, very quiet, almost sweet, “Leave—me—alone.” Then he lets go. Me ’n Brent drop to our feet.
    We stand there rubbing the red spots under our jawbones and watching Julian stalk off toward the cafeteria with everybody getting out of his way.
    Here comes my freshman punk suckup. “I hear he’s a swimmer,” he says. “You got to watch them. They’re skinny but they’re really strong.”
    “Yeah, I hear he’s training for the Olympics,” says another ass kisser.
    “I hear he bench presses 200.”
    Brent says, “Shut up.” His voice comes out squeaky but they zip it and back away.
    Brent looks at me. I look at Brent. “This calls for revenge,” Brent says.
    I don’t say anything. My voice box feels sorta numb.
    At supper, Mom asks me, “Is that new boy still making trouble at your school?”
    “Huh?” I get kind of slow when I don’t want to talk.
    “The sissy boy. The one who says God is a woman.”
    “Oh.” Julian. “He’s not a ‘sissy boy.’” God, my mother is so out of it.
    “He’s not?”
    “No.” A maniac, maybe, a nut case, riding the short bus. Freaky as hell. But definitely not a wimp or a geek either. So much for sizing up new kids.
    The next day Weltzer sends Julian to the office again. Says his tie violates the dress code. It’s a hand-painted tie with a picture of a woman in a white gown sitting on a throne in the middle of an oval of golden stars. Weltzer says it’s from the Tarot and it’s Satanic. I am sitting right there with my shirt hanging out and no tie on and he doesn’t send me to the damn office.
    Weltzer is a major crock.
    I see Julian in the hall around lunchtime but I let him alone. So does Brent.
    Me ’n Brent been buddies practically since kindergarten but that day we don’t have a whole lot to say to each other. We walk out slow after school. Neither of us can think of anything fun to do.
    Until I see Weltzer’s car. There it sits at the far end of the parking lot, a gray Ford Escort with a Jesus fish window sticker and You’ve Got A Friend In JESUS Pennsylvania on the front license plate and some bumper stickers on the back—Don’t Drive Faster Than Your Angel Can Fly, that sort of thing. Me ’n Brent walk past it and I say, “Whoa.” Weltzer has a bright new bumper sticker:
    GOD IS NOT POLITICALLY
    CORRECT, BUT HE’S RIGHT
    Big black letters. The minute I see it—I can’t explain what makes the thought fly into my head—but I just have to do it. It’s gonna make him so pissed.
    “Gimme a black marker, Brent!”
    “Huh?”
    “A black marker! In your book bag, dork! Give it!”
    I’m not worried about somebody seeing me, what with all the cars roaring past between me and school. Anyhow, it only takes a minute. A quick curved line, an S :
    GOD IS NOT