Winger

“Yeah. You know. Breakfast. Eggs. Milk. Yogurt.”

Bastard. The yogurt part did it. Why the hell did he have to say yogurt?

I went back into the stall.

Chapter Ten

ALL THE BOYS IN O-HALL left before me. I’m sure they were enjoying their yogurt and talking about their classes, or about how Ryan Dean West got drunk last night and ruined his life.

Somehow, I managed to get myself dressed: gray socks, tan pants, white long-sleeved shirt, black and royal blue striped school tie, dark navy sweater vest, black shoes. And I thought, what a stupid waste of energy since period one was Conditioning 11M (that meant it was for eleventh-grade boys), and I’d just have to take all these stupid clothes off right away, but at PM you couldn’t walk anywhere on campus during the school day without being in the proper uniform.

I thought about going to see the doctor, because I had to make two more trips to the toilet before I was fully dressed, but I was afraid that the doctor would discover that I was a fourteen-year-old with booze in his system, and that was too scary for me to deal with. So I decided I’d have to be tough, like Annie told me, and suck it up, even if it felt like I was dying.

I made certain this time that our room was entirely clean and the beds were made before I grabbed my schedule and backpack. It was seven forty-five. I wondered what Chas had done with those beers, and then, just thinking about it made me realize another stop at the bathroom was required.

And as I went downstairs and pushed through the double doors that opened on O-Hall’s large mudroom, I saw the so-not-hot-you-should-never-look-at-her-when-you-have-a-hangover Mrs. Singer, just standing on the other side of the window in the door that opened onto the hallway of the girl-less girls’ floor, with her arms folded across her withered breasts, breathing on the glass, watching me as I left for school.

Nothing in the world could convince me at that moment that she didn’t know I was the sick and guilty sonofabitch who woke her up five hours earlier.

How could she not know?

I practically ran out of O-Hall, which was a mistake, because the speed at which I was moving made me feel sick again.

I kept my head down as I walked through the crowds of uniformed kids clustered around the main campus, smelling all the nauseating smells of brand new clothes, brand new backpacks, brand new shoes, and hair gel. It was like I was a bug trapped inside a Macy’s bag. I felt like every one of the eight hundred students at PM knew about what I’d done the night before, and what a loser I was, so I just concentrated on the path that would lead me to the locker room at the sports complex.

I ran through my schedule in my mind as I staggered to first period:

1. Conditioning 11M. Seanie and JP would be in that class with me.

2. Advanced Calculus. Scary-hot Megan Renshaw and Joey Cosentino, who knew what an “asswing” I was, were both in that class.

3. AP Macroeconomics. Megan and Joey, hour two of two.

4. American Lit. Ultrahot Annie. Oh, and JP, too.

5. Lunch. I could find a shady spot away from my friends to die.

6. Team Athletics. The first day of rugby, a possible reason for rising from the grave of lunch.

“Hey! West! Wait up!”

It was too late to just put my head down and pretend I didn’t notice her. Annie came running up behind me, fantastically perfect in her school skirt. I knew I looked so guilty, too, like I had done something wrong to her. I felt sick. And I almost wanted to cry when I saw her, but I didn’t have any idea exactly why.

“Where were you? I was looking for you this morning,” she said. Then I noticed her expression change when she got close enough to see my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Annie. I am really sick.”

“Oh my God, Ryan Dean, you look terrible!”

And it was so wonderful to hear her actually say my first name like that.

I sighed. “Gee, thanks.”

I looked at my watch. There were no bells at PM. You just had to be where you had to be, when you had to be there. It was 7:55.

“Maybe you should go see the doctor,” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I didn’t want to miss first day. I’m going to be late for PE. I’ll see you in Lit, okay?”

I turned away, and she brushed my hair with her hand and said, “I hope you feel better.”

Chapter Eleven

ON THE FIRST DAY OF conditioning, we had to go out on a three-mile run to the north shore of the lake and back. I knew Seanie and JP could tell something was wrong with me. We all stayed in the back of the pack, jogging slow so we could talk.

“What happened last night?” JP asked it first.

“The game got started at midnight,” I said.

“That’s when it started?” Seanie said.

“A little bit after midnight,” I said. “Kevin Cantrell, Joey Cosentino, me, and Chas. And they brought beer with them.”

Just saying it made me feel sick again.

“God, Ryan Dean, you could get so thrown out of school for that,” JP said.

“Did you drink?” Seanie asked.

“They kind of made me.” We ran a few steps in silence. I thought I could tell what they were thinking, and I said, “I got drunk. And I lost out first, too.”

“Oh, God,” JP said.

And Seanie, always the cheerful one, added, “So . . . what’s it feel like to be a fucking alcoholic?” Then he pushed me, and I almost fell into the lake. I knew he was just joking around, but Seanie was always so creepy about how he said things.

“Man, Seanie, I am so fucking sick.”

Well, I didn’t actually say “fucking,” because I really never do cuss, but I was fucking sick. I sure thought the word, even if I didn’t say it. And then I wondered, does cussing count in the general scheme of things if you only cuss in your head and not out loud? And I added, “I am never going to do that again.”

“That’s what all fucking alcoholics say,” Seanie deadpanned. “Then they go home, get shitfaced, and shoot their wife in the fucking forehead while she’s cooking a meatloaf and green beans.”

I had to laugh. I also had to get back to the toilets in the locker room.

“What did they do to you when you lost?” JP asked.

I tried to remember, but it seemed so grainy and unclear, like those films of Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.

“Wait,” Seanie said. “If Joey was there, maybe it’s something you should talk about, like, with your dad.”

“You’re a freak, Seanie,” I said. “They made me go downstairs and pee in the girls’ floor bathroom. And sing. And there’s no girls there, except for that—eew—Mrs. Singer.”

“She is so freakin’ hot,” Seanie said. “Did she look at your wiener?”