And
that
was the stupidest thing I ever did.
Here’s what you have to understand: I’m a PK, a preacher’s kid. My dad, Matthew Hopkins, is the rector of East Valley Church, which is on Washington Street, which is in our town, which is Sawnee, which is a small place of about seven thousand people in upstate New York. And see, when you’re sixteen and your dad is a preacher—and you live in a small town so everybody knows who he is and who you are—there’s a lot of pressure on you. It’s not that anyone expects you to be perfect or anything. You don’t have to be brilliant. You don’t have to be an athlete. You don’t have to get great grades in school. All you have to do is—well, nothing. Or nothing wrong, that is. You can never, ever do anything wrong. Ever. Other kids can get into trouble, get sent to the principal’s office, get a little wild sometimes. But not you, not the PK. See, people like to gossip about the preacher. Since he’s always reminding them to be moral and good, they get kind of a thrill out of it when they find out his life isn’t perfect. And if you—the preacher’s kid—get in trouble, everyone will start whispering to one another:
Did you hear about the preacher’s kid? Tsk, tsk, tsk, Reverend Matt’s boy has really gone off the rails .
. . It makes your father look bad. It makes your mother upset and angry. And it makes you feel like the worst person on earth. Trust me on this.
So, on the one hand, there’s all this pressure to be good. But then, on the other hand, you don’t want to be
too
good. You don’t want to be so good you can’t be . . . well, ordinary. One of the guys. You don’t want the other kids to feel like they have to fall silent whenever you walk by or stop telling the joke they were telling or say “Excuse me” to you after they curse or something as if you were their maiden aunt and had never heard a bad word before.
It can be a problem. Like, with girls, for instance. I can’t help noticing that a lot of the girls in school are very polite to me. I mean,
very
polite. Extra polite.
Too
polite. Like I’m their best friend’s little sister or something. Like I’m their mother’s good china and they want to be careful not to break me. Now and then, for instance, I’ll be looking at a girl . . . Okay, specifically I’ll be looking at Zoe Miller. Because I have what is technically called “a major thing” for Zoe Miller. Because Zoe Miller happens to be insanely cute and nice. She’s got this short black hair and these big green eyes and this pug nose with freckles on it and this smile that makes you feel like she really means it. And the thing is, when she’s with most people, she’s really funny too. Not funny like a circus clown or anything, but just kind of good-natured and teasing and easygoing and comical. People are always laughing when she’s around. She’s fun to be with, that’s what I’m trying to say.
So anyway, I’ll be looking at Zoe when she’s talking to—let’s say, for instance—Mark Sales. Mark Sales, the star runner on our track team. Mark Sales, who set a new school record in the 3,000-meter steeplechase of eleven minutes and five seconds. Mark Sales, who’s seventeen and nearly six feet tall and whose teeth practically flash and sparkle when he smiles, so that girls wait until he walks by and then clutch their books and look up to heaven with their mouths open as if some sort of miracle has occurred just because he said hello to them. And don’t get me wrong: Mark is a great guy, a really nice guy—but somehow that only makes the whole situation worse . . .
So, as I was saying, I’ll be looking at Zoe when she’s talking to Mark Sales. And Zoe will be all relaxed and easygoing and joking around like she usually is. And Mark and his track-star pals, Nathan Deutsch and Justin Philips, will all be laughing around her with their sparkly teeth. It’ll just be cute Zoe and the Big Men on Campus standing around the school hallway having a blast. Right?
Then I walk by.
And I say, “Hey, guys.”
And suddenly everyone stops laughing. Everyone kind of clears his or her throat and they all glance at one another. It’s as if I’d caught them doing something really embarrassing.
And then Mark says, “Hey, Sam.” In this sort of formal way.
And Nathan and Justin mutter, “Hey.” Because they’re not as good at pretending to be relaxed as Mark is.
And then finally Zoe smiles at me, but it’s not her supergreat smile that she gives to everyone else. It’s this ever-so-polite smile. And she says, “Oh, hello, Sam. It’s nice to see you,” in such a polite, formal, inoffensive, and not-joking way that I really would prefer it if she just took out a gun and shot me dead on the spot.
That’s what I’m talking about. Being a preacher’s kid. It can be a problem.
So you might be wondering: What has this got to do with Jeff Winger? With me saying I would be friends with Jeff Winger?
Well, okay, since you ask, here’s the answer: whatever else you could say about him, Jeff Winger was
not
a preacher’s kid. Jeff Winger didn’t have a father at all as far as anyone could tell, and he only lived with his mother when he could find her. As a result, Jeff didn’t have to worry about being a good guy all the time. Good guy? He was a full-blown juvenile delinquent! He had once been arrested for stealing a car. He had once been arrested for driving under the influence—under the influence of what, I’m not entirely sure, but it must’ve been pretty influential because he piled his cousin’s pickup fender-first into a lamppost. What else? Oh yeah, Jeff had been suspended from school twice or maybe three times for various reasons: fighting, smoking, carrying a weapon—a knife, I think it was. And one time he had shown up for first period with his face a mass of purple bruises—the rumor was he had taken part in a knock-down, drag-out brawl at the Shamrock, a nasty bar over in Ondaga, one town over.
So that was Jeff Winger. And again, the big question: Why would I have any reason to want to be friends with a thug like that?
Well, for one thing, I couldn’t help noticing that girls didn’t fall silent around Jeff. They didn’t treat Jeff like their best friend’s little sister. Not at all. Girls loved Jeff. Okay, not all girls. Not—just to be completely accurate—any of the girls I was particularly interested in knowing. But still, they were girls, which is no small thing, and they just loved him. No kidding.
One day I remember I was sitting in algebra class. And unfortunately, at Sawnee High School, algebra is taught by Mr. Gray, who is every inch as exciting as his name suggests. You know the sound a lawn mower makes when someone’s cutting the grass about halfway down the block? Like:
uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh
? That’s how Mr. Gray talks.
So anyway, Mr. Gray was droning on in that
uuuuuu–hhhhh
voice about how some imaginary guy named John Smith took a job and received a three percent raise in salary every four years—which, by the way, sounded like a pretty crummy job to me. And the numbers and letters Mr. Gray was scrawling on the whiteboard were beginning to blur in front of my eyes into a single hazy shadow. And after a while I sort of turned and glanced out the window, hoping there might be an alien invasion or nuclear war or
something
distracting out there to keep me awake. And instead, far across the track field, I saw Jeff out by the bleachers with Wendy Inge. And to put it bluntly, Wendy Inge was hanging from his lips like a cigarette.
Now, again, let me emphasize: Wendy Inge is not a girl I really want to know very well. In fact, she’s not someone I even want to stand very close to. All I’m saying is: she was a girl and she wasn’t being superpolite or formal or saying, “Oh, hello, Jeff,” like he was her maiden aunt. Nobody ever mistook Jeff for anybody’s maiden aunt.
So sometimes I couldn’t help thinking:
Hey, if I could learn to be just a little more like Jeff, then maybe people wouldn’t expect me to be so
nice
all the time. Maybe people would feel more relaxed around me. Maybe they could clown around with me like they do with everyone else. Maybe Zoe would laugh with me the way she laughs with Mark Sales
.
And that’s why, when Jeff Winger asked me if I wanted to be one of his friends—that’s why I said, “Sure. Okay.” Because I was thinking:
Hey, maybe this is my chance. Maybe this is exactly what I need in my life. Maybe I can learn something important from these guys
.
Like I said: stupid. Very.
Here is what happened when we went into the barn—me, I mean, and Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac.
Jeff led the way. Ed P. and Harry Mac followed. For another minute or so, I couldn’t do much but stand there by the Camaro, gripping my stomach and trying not to throw up. I was in pretty bad shape at this point. My gut hurt from Jeff punching me, my face hurt from Jeff slapping me, my hand hurt from having splinters in it, my shoulder hurt from falling on it when Harry Mac tripped me, and my lungs ached from running so hard. Plus I had a whole bunch of other assorted cuts and bruises to show for my afternoon’s adventures.
More than that, my brain was kind of swirling. I knew it was not a good idea to be hanging around with these guys. But for the reasons I’ve already explained, I was kind of—I don’t know—curious about what was going to happen next. It was interesting. It was exciting. It was just the sort of thing a preacher’s kid wouldn’t do.
So after another moment of recuperating and catching my breath, I straightened up and followed the three of them over the sandy driveway to the barn.
Jeff was unlocking a padlock that held the barn’s big door closed. Then Ed P. took hold of the door and sort of walked it open. Inside, it was dark and shadowy.
“Get her going,” said Jeff to Ed P.
Ed P. squatted down just inside the door. I could see him yanking at something—the way you yank on the cord of a lawn mower or a motorboat. After a couple of yanks, I heard a gas engine rumble to life. I guessed what it was: a portable generator. Sure enough, a moment later some lights flickered on inside the barn.
Jeff turned to me and grinned and made a grand gesture, sweeping his hand toward the barn as if to say:
Enter a world of enchantment
.
Which I did.
The first things I noticed inside the barn—the first things anyone would have noticed—were two cars. Very, very nice cars. Luxury cars, like something some of the richer people in town might have driven. One was a great big black Audi, brand-new. The other was smaller, a cool, sleek silver Mercedes, also new. The barn was lit by these hooded lamps held up on tall silver poles, and the bulbs were directed at the cars so that the cars were sort of spotlighted as if they were on display.
“Whoa!” I said. I moved around the two cars, staring at them. I don’t mind saying I was impressed. My dad drives a Volkswagen Passat. It’s about five years old and kind of rattles when it gets up past fifty miles an hour. My mom drives a clunky minivan that I think dates back to cowboy-and-Indian days. I have a learner’s permit and I get to drive the Passat sometimes, but mostly I still get around on a bike. Staring at the Audi and the Mercedes in the barn, I was mesmerized. I forgot all my aches and pains as I imagined what it would be like to sit behind the wheel of one of these babies, to drive one of them through town with everybody standing back to admire me.
The rest of the barn was mostly clutter and dust. A hard-packed earth floor. Tangled extension cords. There was also a small sitting area in one shadowy corner. There were a bunch of old office chairs there—swivel chairs with torn upholstery—plus an old sofa that looked like someone had rescued it from a garbage dump. There was a small cooler too, a big white Styrofoam box with a blue Styrofoam lid on it.
Jeff plunked down on one of the chairs. He sprawled in it like a drunken king on his throne. He swiveled back and forth. Finally, he leaned back and pried the top off the cooler so that it slipped over and stood slanted, leaning against the cooler’s side. He reached into the box and pulled out a can of beer. He tossed it to me—so quick, I caught it kind of automatically. I held on to it for a second and then tossed it away again to Harry Mac.
Jeff laughed at me. “You’re not gonna tell me you don’t drink, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m gonna let you guess.”
Everyone stopped moving. Harry Mac and Ed P. looked at Jeff to see if he was going to get angry at me for being a wise guy. But after a second, Jeff laughed.
“S’what I’m talking about,” he said to Harry Mac, pointing at me. “He’s a tough little punk. I like that.”
Now that they knew what they were supposed to think, Harry Mac and Ed P. nodded in appreciation of my tough little punkitude. Jeff tossed Ed P. a can of beer and took one for himself. The barn popped and hissed as they tore open their tabs.
“So,” said Jeff, kicking back in his chair. “What do you think, punk?” He was indicating the cars now. “They’re nice, aren’t they?”
I looked the two cars over some more. I nodded. “They’re nice, all right,” I said.