I'm with Stupid (17 page)

Chicken Launchers Head to Walmart

Abby's plan for clean living: we couldn't spend any time in our houses except to sleep. “I need to be some place where there are bright lights and normal people,” she said.

There aren't a ton of good places to go in Bluffton. Walmart is huge, and it has a deli section where you can sit and drink pop for hours on end. So we decided to go there for the evening.

I only wanted to read
Hamlet
. While I paged through the play, Abby buried herself in a giant textbook. She looked like Jerri nosed into her accounting text.

“You know why people go crazy?” I asked.

She shushed me, which I kind of liked, because that's the way the old Abby would behave. You couldn't stop her from studying.

“Because they don't know what else to do,” I said. “They don't see a good path.”

“Felton,” Abby said. “Shut up. Okay?”

“You got it,” I nodded. “To be or not to be…talking. Not talking.”

I looked around. Stared at the fluorescent lights and blinked.
You're not like Dad really.
That's what I thought.
He wanted to break the mold. Shuffle off that mortal coil. You just want to chill. Hamlet and Dad weren't alike. Dad's dad is still alive. Your dad is dead. You're like Hamlet, not Dad? Everybody dies. You're going to die. Abby will die. Everybody in this store will die and rot in the ground, and won't they be happy they don't have to shop at Walmart under these giant lights that pretty much burn out your soul…My
heart was starting to accelerate.
Oh
God. What's wrong with you?

I stood up. I said, “I'm going to take a quick run around the store.”

“What?” Abby asked, her eyebrows scrunched with concern.

Then Andrew called. I grabbed my phone from my pocket. “My brother,” I said to Abby.

“Talk to him. Don't talk to me,” Abby said.

I answered. “Hi.”

“Saw your video. Very inventive. I didn't know you were such a good actor.”

“Uh-huh. I act. How's Grandpa?” I asked.

“He has an ulcer from taking too much ibuprofen because he gave himself a hernia, which apparently hurts.”

“Oh good.” I nodded. “That doesn't sound life threatening. He's not going to die.”

“No. He's going to have minor surgery when I'm out of school this summer. The doctor asked if he wore an athletic supporter when he played tennis. Grandpa said no because he likes his boys to be free.”

I laughed.

There was silence.

“Andrew?” I asked.

Andrew exhaled. “Aleah demanded I call you,” he said.

I looked at Abby. She was engrossed in cell biology.

“Why?” I whispered.

“She'd like to speak with you. She has something important to discuss. That's all, Felton. I'm angry because you won't go to the therapists I sent you and I'm angry at you for thinking beer is funny…”

“I never said beer is…”

“But I told Aleah I'd call you anyway, even though you probably wouldn't answer.”

“I answered.”

“Good work.”

Andrew hung up.

My heart beat weird.
No, Aleah. Not again. Won't do it.

I went to the pop machine and filled my blue Powerade, then came back to the table. A couple older ladies standing outside the seating area stared at Abby and me and whispered. I heard one say, “Cute couple.”

Then a thought struck me.
Are
you
and
Abby
really
a
couple? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?
Just the mention of Aleah could send my heart into a weird rhythm—but Abby?

“Hey,” I said.

“Please, Felton.”

“Abby, are we boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Abby paused. “Everybody thinks we are,” she said.

“So…?”

“Do you want to be?” Abby asked. “Like a romantic couple?”

“I don't…I don't know…Do you?”

“Do you?” she asked back.

“Um…I kind of think of you as my hot sister, except when we drink.”

Abby blinked. She nodded. “I'm going to tell you a secret, Felton.” Abby's face began heating up. “Sit down.”

I sat back down.

“You can't tell anyone. You swear?” she said.

“I swear.”

“Listen. I don't want to have sex.”

“Yeah, I actually got that.”

“Also, I don't want to kiss…people.”

“Okay?”

“I don't understand why people would think having a tongue stuck in their mouth is fun, and I don't have any idea why they'd want your thing stuck in their vajayjay.”

“My thing?”

“Any thing.”

“That's…that's cool?” I said.

Abby started talking fast. “Except it's totally abnormal. You don't think I've googled this? Like I have no interest in sex when I'm eighteen years old? And these websites say I have hormone problems or I'm a lesbian or I'm, like, some kind of child abuse victim and I don't think I am, except maybe the hormone thing, but I don't exhibit any other symptom of that and I really, really, really want to be normal, but I'm not, so I don't really want a boyfriend, but I want you to…to be around with me…to stay together like a team because…”

Abby kept talking faster and faster, and I got it because I spin out so much sometimes. It's not easy to watch someone spin out. I decided to help.

“Stop,” I said.

“Why? You don't want the team?” Abby swallowed.

“Will you go to prom with me?” I asked.

Abby shook her head. She stared. “Really?” she said.

“Tuxedos and crap,” I said. “For real.”

“I'm telling you that…”

“We aren't going to do it. We're not together like that. I won't even kiss your hand.”

“I'm really like Barbie,” Abby whispered. “Plastic.”

“No,” I said. “You're not.”

“I am.”

“You don't have a plastic convertible or a beach house. Your knees bend.”

“I'm Barbie,” Abby said.

“Then I'll be ‘Prom Date' Ken.”

Abby stared at me. “Oh my God,” she said. “I really like you.”

We stared at each other more. Abby's eyes were wet.

And then my phone buzzed in my pocket, which made me leap out of my chair.

“Chill, Felton. Why are you so jumpy?”

“Gus,” I said.

One of our chickens had just gotten huge.

The Borders of Bluffton Don't Contain This Guy

When Abby drove me home, she said, “I think people were staring at us at Walmart. Am I totally paranoid?”

“They were staring. Old ladies.”

She nodded.

When Abby dropped me off at my house, she said, “Please don't tell anyone what I told you.”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks, Felton. Call me after you talk to Gus.”

When I'd answered the phone from Walmart, Gus had shouted, “We're going viral, man!” Then he'd asked me to call him back in a half hour. He had to get off the phone because he was clicking at his computer and sort of hyperventilating.

I went inside the house. Jerri wasn't there. I made myself dinner (stuffed bread in my mouth and then a whole package of Buddig ham), went downstairs, and called Gus back.

When he answered, he said, “Okay. Okay. Really, you're going viral.”

“No. I'm here. I'm not viral,” I said.

“Yeah, but somebody on YouTube figured out that you're the Polish Fist,” Gus said.

“Everybody knows that's me. We weren't trying to hide it or anything.”

“Not Bluffton, man. It can't go viral in Bluffton, right? If I'm tracking it correctly, an ESPN reporter is the one.”

The word ESPN sent a shock up my spine. “The one who what?”

“The one who sent it out to like 200,000 Twitter followers, and a bunch of them retweeted that crap to a shit ton of other Twitter freaks. It's…man…it's everywhere! Just this afternoon and tonight! Everywhere, Felton. Because of you, do you get it? Jesus. Who have you become?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Felton Reinstein sells tickets! This is crazy!”

“Yeah. Can you take the video down?” I asked. “I don't want it blasting off all over.”

“It wouldn't matter if I did take it down,” Gus said. “It's been copied and reposted about thirty times today. People are titling it ‘Reinstein Dickinski.' This is seriously amazing. I've never been part of…”

“But, Jesus, it's an inside joke about Karpinski's dad! Why do they care?”

“No. It's legitimately hilarious. Haven't you watched it?”

“No. And I'm not going to.”

“You're going to see it. It's everywhere,” Gus said.

“I'm not interested.”

“This is not the response I expected, man. You're a comedy hit. That's what you used to want. Remember? Remember when you tried stand-up in seventh grade?”

Picture me in a cheap blue suit telling jokes while kids boo.

“I have to go,” I said. “Need to sleep.”

“Come on, Felton. This is cool.”

“It's cool. Okay. Except maybe not for Karpinski.”

“There are already Dickinski tribute videos going up.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Get ready, Felton. School's going to be crazy tomorrow.”

He hung up.

I shook my head, tried to shake out the news. Tribute videos?

Yeah, I sort of felt like Karpinski had it coming in school. But I wasn't from Bluffton High anymore, was I? Bluffton didn't remotely contain me. People from everywhere knew me, and I was bringing the whole freaking world down on Karpinski?

Shit. He didn't deserve that.

Abby texted:
wow. we are everywhere.

Poor Karpinski.

Hamlet kills his old friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Cody Frederick and Karpinski.

Fast Falling

Dickinski Grows and Grows

I have serious problems and it's too easy to be me. I'm the worst off and the best. I'm hard luck and the top of the heap.

That split is super hard to reconcile.

Born lucky, Prince Hamlet was the son of a murdered dude.

***

Gus was right. The school was buzzing the next morning, Wednesday morning. They'd mentioned the Dickinski video on KLYV, the radio station in Dubuque, and on WSWW, the local news station, so moms knew about it. It flew through Facebook and Twitter.

Karpinski continued to stay out of school. Cody glared at me. Bony Emily, wearing her “Bully Me” shirt, ran up and hugged me around the neck. “My cousin in Kentucky saw the video. He was like ‘Hot damn, that's Emily!'”

“Weird,” I said.

Pig Boy shouted across the commons, “I'm a movie star!”

Abby said, “Jess won't even look at me.” Her face was totally pale.

The volume kept going up.

In the middle of Linder's class, the school secretary came to the door and knocked. Linder was in the middle of a discussion about how Hamlet kills the crap out of Polonius (sort of his girlfriend's dad) and how that wasn't exactly a well-thought-out act. Linder wasn't remotely pleased to see Mrs. McGinn standing there.

“What?” he asked.

“Felton Reinstein has a phone call in the office,” she said.

“Can he return the call later?” Linder asked. “What you're seeing here…” Linder waved his hand in front of all of us, “is an educational classroom.”

Then Mrs. McGinn whispered (across the whole room), “It's from a Madison TV station. They need an interview ASAP.”

Several people shouted, “Jesus!” and “Whoa!”

Mr. Linder said, “Good lord. Go on, Felton.”

I said, “No thanks.”

Gus tapped me on the shoulder. “Go. Mention my name. Come on.”

I got up slowly and followed Mrs. McGinn out the door. We walked through the empty halls. Mrs. McGinn said, “I went to school with Dave Karpinski. You got him just right, Felton. He was just like that back in '86 too.”

A week earlier, Mrs. McGinn, wearing a Wisconsin Badger sweater, gave me the evil eye. I'm serious.

***

The reporter wasn't on the phone. She'd been set up on Skype. McGinn sat me down at her computer. “Hi, this is Megan Hansen.”

“Hi?” I said, staring at her blond head. I recognized her from TV.

“Do you mind if I record?” she asked.

“Video?” I asked.

“TV news,” she said.

“No?” I said.

“Great. Fantastic.” She smiled.

Then Megan Hansen congratulated me on accepting the scholarship to Stanford. I said, “Thanks.” She asked about the video.

“You remind me of Bill Murray in it,” she said. “Was he your inspiration?”

Bill Murray? Talk to my dad. He's dead but still owns a
Caddyshack
poster. I took a breath.
You
think, Felton. No thoughtless chatter. Don't make this worse.
“No. My friends were,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

I told her it was Abby's brainchild. “My friend, Abby, is funny.” I told her Gus directed, filmed, and edited the thing, and it was really his genius. “He's been studying films forever. He's great.” I didn't tell her I'd never watched it and didn't intend to or that Karpinski wasn't in school.

“How do you feel? First, you're a star athlete. Now you star in a viral video with a million views.”

“A million?” I asked. I shook my head.

“And counting,” she said.

“Holy balls.”
Keep
it
together.

“Ha, ha,” she laughed. “There are dozens of copycat videos out there too.”

“I've heard,” I said.

“Have you watched them?”

“I'm pretty busy.”

“Preparing for track, I bet.”

“Yeah. Lots of running. I run like a sheepdog. Around and around the yard,” I said. “I can't stop.”
Keep
it
together, idiot!

Megan Hansen laughed. “Nobody knew you were such a funny guy.”

“True that,” I said. “I better get back to class. My English teacher's pretty rough on us.”

“Wait. Do you have time for one more question, Felton?” She sucked in her cheeks and squinted like this was really important.

“Sure. A quickie,” I replied.

She laughed. I don't know why she laughed. Then she asked, “Does ‘The Polish Fist' represent your reaction to the way Wisconsin has treated you since you made your Stanford announcement?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does Dickinski…you know his stupidity and bravado…does he represent Wisconsin?”

My first thought was to say, “Hell, yeah! Wisconsin is a doofus, turd-swallowing pervert with a fat gut and a love of any female with boobs.” But instead, I took a deep breath and gathered my non-Hamlet thoughts. “No,” I said. “I understand why people were so angry. It was really stupid to grab the Wisconsin hat. I love this state. It will always be home to me. I'm so sorry.”

“Perfect, Felton. I have that on video,” she said. “I'll use it.”

Back in Linder's class, I was greeted as a hero (not by Linder himself). Then the bell rang.

***

The story ran at the end of the 5 p.m., 6 p.m., and 10 p.m. broadcasts. I watched it once with Abby. Even though my interview part was edited way down, the piece still mentioned her and Gus. I also got home in time to see it an hour later with Jerri, who said, “When did you make this video? Can I watch it?”

“No,” I told her.

I didn't watch the segment at 10 p.m. I felt sick about Karpinski. I felt sick about Cody. And the story was really focused on that final thing I said, my big statement of love for Wisconsin, my apology. I looked really honest and sad when I said it. And then I had to turn my phone off because out of no place, I began getting texts of love from random people, texts forgiving me for what I'd done two weeks earlier, texts wishing me luck in my move to California.

It made me sick. I didn't deserve to be treated well.

I ran for an hour in the dark on the main road outside our house.