Free Teen Frankenstein by Chandler Baker

much as hint that you’re having a less-than-perfect day, they will pray for you. You’ve been warned.” I laughed when Adam sidestepped farther from them. “Over there, those are the Billys.” Owen directed our attention to five husky guys tossing around a ball. “Redneck football players. They have a shocking amount of dudes named Bill. That’s Billy. Then there’s Billy Ray, and William. Those fine fellows”—we paused to watch Billy Ray crush a can between his palms, then use it to peg William in the backside—“those are God’s gift to Hollow Pines.”
    â€œAs you can see, God’s fondness for Hollow Pines is questionable,” I said.
    Maybe it was seeing guys that looked like him or maybe it was the whooshing excitement of the football, but Adam began gravitating toward the Billys like they were the actual center of the class solar system. “Uh-uh.” I snagged Adam by the elbow. “No way. We steer clear of them.” I had thought Owen and my speech made that clear. “They’re popular. And mean. That, my friend, is a bad combination.”
    We picked our way through the rest of the factions—Tea-Sippers, Kickers, and the Angels Camp Posse—and onto the school’s crumbly lawn.
    At the top of the walkway, a card table, manned by a bevy of Oilerettes, blocked the entrance. “Calendars! Only ten dollars! Show your Oiler spirit!” Paisley Wheelwright waved a glossy wall calendar overhead.
    â€œThat’s the drill team, the Oilerettes,” Owen mumbled to Adam. “Tor affectionately calls them the ‘Whore Core.’”
    â€œCan we please keep that between us?” I shot Owen a dirty look. But seriously, the school’s cheerleaders were selling calendars of themselves. The campus of Hollow Pines High was basically where feminism came to die.
    Nearby, I heard a gruff yell. “Ready, set, hike!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Billy Ray cock his arm back like a trigger and fire off a football.
    â€œIncoming,” Owen called out.
    William ran toward us, his chin hiked over his shoulder. I watched his bright red hair and freckled face sprinting over, not looking where he was going. His eye was on the spinning ball and so was mine. Adam and I jumped apart and William threaded the space between us, narrowly missing a death stomp to my toes.
    As the ball hurtled toward me, I did that awful thing girls do when they screw up their arms and elbows. I hated sports. Even more than that, I hated team sports. And even more than that, I couldn’t handle balls flying toward my face. A chorus of squealing girls split the morning bustle just as William dove. He crashed onto the Oilerette table, squishing the smiling faces of the pom-pom-toting future Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders of America and buckling the table’s legs so that it pitched onto its side. As for the ball, it landed with a bouncy ker-thunk directly in front of Adam’s feet.
    â€œDid that even make sense in your head?” Paisley Wheelwright, pint-sized blond and summa cum laude in high kicks and spray tans, shrieked at William, who was crinkling glossy calendar spreads with his rear end as he tried to wriggle free from the wreckage.
    â€œWhat?” He roughed his hair. “It’s not my fault.”
    Feet away, Billy Ray clapped and held his hands out. “Toss me the ball, man.”
    Adam stared at the football, still rocking on the concrete walkway like a dying cockroach. Time seemed to freeze over. Slowly, Adam reached down and wrapped his hand over the leather laces.
    William stopped his shimmy. Adam looked down at the ball then up at Billy Ray. I clenched my teeth.
    Billy Ray rubbed the top of his shaved head and looked around as if to say Are you seeing this? “It’s not a snake. It ain’t gonna bite you.” His accent made for a slow drawl.
    Adam’s expression was serene. His elbow arced