Free Rats Saw God by Rob Thomas Page B

lines of floats with all the arrogance of a jockey set to ride Secretariat. The sponsor of the student council used a bullhorn to tell the drivers to start their engines. As we were wishing Beverly and Trey luck, Tom Pittman approached Doug.
    â€œWhat does that say?” he said, pointing at the Chinese word for pork. He was concerned, presumably, because we had used three times the number of Life Savers—and orange rather than lime ones at that—on the initials of our group’s name. Hence, the slogan “Grace Order of Dadaists says Pork” read more like “GOD says X.”
    Our leader answered without hesitation, “Beat the Mustangs.”
    Within twenty minutes, the dozen remaining members of GOD had carved out a two-row-by-six-seat section of prime parade viewing turf in the football grandstands. Those who could separate me from Dub had successfully done so. I sat on the aisle in row two; she took the innermost seat of row one. Even Rhonda was willing to sit one seat closer to me, immediately to Dub’s left. I had begun to lose faith in Sarah’s letter. What if she had meant to write Rhonda’s name and absentmindedly substituted Dub’s?
    Doug, sitting beside me, chin in hand, grunted.
    â€œCan’t they do any better than that?” he said, pointing to the first row where a full score of Skate or Diers were holding newspapers, upside down, in front of their faces in showy indifference to the parade beginning to take shape on the track before them. Though I was confident Doug harbored no regrets about the direction GOD had taken, part of him longed for the abject loathing Skate or Die inspired. He knew the satire we intended with Get Hammered would pass harmlessly over the heads of most of his peers.
    As organizers of the parade, the student council was automatically given lead position, and I admit I was impressed, from a strictly aesthetic point of view, with their float. Given the demographics of the community who gravitated to student government, it was hardly surprising that they found it within their quasi-pontifical reach to obtain a genuine yacht. They had affixed a Styrofoam shell to the outside and painted it a mottled greenish brown, approximating the scabby, barnacled look of a pirate ship. A skull-and-crossbones-emblazoned sail hung from the mast, and a legion of blond, Soloflex-buffed pirates with eyepatches, bandannas, and stuffed parrots wired to their shoulders manned battle stations. The boat was skirted by a patch of ocean blue-painted plywood. A horse head (which, for me at least, evoked The Godfather more readily than our gridiron rivals) stuck out of the ersatz sea. As the float rounded the curve and came into full view of the student body, the band broke into “Bucs Fight.” The Buccaneer Babes began their synchronized Rockette routine in the stands, and thecheerleaders kicked their heels backward and jabbed pompoms heavenward each time the band paused for a shouted chorus of “Bucs Fight! Bucs Fight! Yay, Bucs Fight!” The game jersey-clad football players slouched in folding chairs facing the student body on the inside of the track. The deities-in-waiting feigned aplomb, succeeding only in looking as bored as the Skate or Diers whose asses they were silently vowing to kick Monday at school.
    Doug had drawn number 16 in the parade order lottery, which meant Get Hammered represented the midpoint of the parade. For a group that took special pride in its skepticism, we young GODs were certainly being blatantly unblasé waiting for our entry to arrive, sniping at the more garish efforts of our competitors (except for Lynnette, who apparently expected the Second Coming to occur on one of the passing flatbed trucks) and trying to top each other with the most fatuously generic cheer. Veg won that battle, based at least partially on the way his voice cracked and went falsetto when he stood during a lull between floats to howl with insane