Cheesie Mack Is Not a Genius or Anything Read Online Free
Author: Steve Cotler
time to stop before I got there. Georgie has three brothers, but they are grown-up and don’t live with him, so he is sort of an only child, and he’s not used to crying in front of anyone.
So I walked.
I’ve noticed a funny thing about crying. Little kids actually seem to like doing it. When you’re small, you wail and wail. It’s loud. You make enough noise to block out the rest of the world. And the crying all byitself fills you up so much that you forget why you started in the first place and just sort of hide in your own noise. But when you get to almost eleven, like me, mostly you don’t do that anymore.
I walked exactly 119 steps downstream from the path between our two houses (98 steps if Georgie’s counting … his steps are bigger). That’s where the creek, which almost never has any water in it, goes under a road. Just above the creek bed, there’s a four-foot-wide metal pipe that goes through the concretewall that holds up the road. Once inside the pipe, we’re completely out of sight of everyone, and there’s a sort of echo that makes everything we say sound more important, so Georgie and I have turned it into our secret clubhouse. We don’t have a club or anything. No members. No secret passwords. But we couldn’t think of a better name.
That’s where I knew I would find him. And I did.
When Georgie looked up, I saw that his eyes had that fat, swelled-up look that kids get when they’ve been crying. He sniffed, then rubbed his nose hard.
“I’ve got some really bad news.…………… Cheesie.”
Please look at the previous sentence.
I put those sixteen dots between the last two words because even though Georgie was talking at regular speed, my mind was zooming so fast that the split second between “bad news” and “Cheesie” lasted for a long time.
Here’s what the noise of my thinking sounded like:
Georgie was really mad. But he didn’t sounda bit sad or afraid. I think dying would make him sad and afraid. So I figured he didn’t have cancer or Ebola or stuff.
Maybe we weren’t friends anymore. But why would his father say he had bad news? It didn’t make sense.
That left just one possibility: I was pretty sure Georgie was moving away.
Georgie sniffed again, loud, and then said a word six times in a row that the people who print these books told me I definitely could not write. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Cheesie, my father told me I can’t go to camp.”
I hadn’t thought of
that
. We loved camp, and this year would be our fifth summer in a row. It lasts six weeks and is maximum fun.
“My father said he can’t afford it. He got laid off.” Georgie’s face was all scrunched, and his eyes started to get even puffier and redder.
Georgie’s father works worked for some kind of technology company. He’s a microwave transmission engineer. I don’t know what that means, but I knowit does not have anything to do with the microwave I use to heat frozen burritos.
Georgie picked up some pebbles. I leaned backward because I thought he was going to fling them hard. But he just clinked them against the metal wall of our clubhouse and slumped his head. I had never seen him this miserable.
Then I felt miserable because this summer at camp was going to be our best yet. It has to do with Big Guys and Little Guys.
Granpa (I forgot to mention that he’s the camp director) and his staff of counselors divide the boys at Camp Windward into two groups. Big Guys stay up later, play some different sports like lacrosse and flag football, and have dances and stuff with Camp Leeward, the girls’ camp next door.
Georgie and I have been Little Guys for the last four years. This year we would still be Little Guys, but our cabin would be the
oldest
of the Little Guys, which is terrific. We’d get to be in charge of Little Guys campfires, movie nights, the skit and talent show, color war, and lots of other great stuff. Nextyear we’ll be the youngest of the Big Guys. Not
So I walked.
I’ve noticed a funny thing about crying. Little kids actually seem to like doing it. When you’re small, you wail and wail. It’s loud. You make enough noise to block out the rest of the world. And the crying all byitself fills you up so much that you forget why you started in the first place and just sort of hide in your own noise. But when you get to almost eleven, like me, mostly you don’t do that anymore.
I walked exactly 119 steps downstream from the path between our two houses (98 steps if Georgie’s counting … his steps are bigger). That’s where the creek, which almost never has any water in it, goes under a road. Just above the creek bed, there’s a four-foot-wide metal pipe that goes through the concretewall that holds up the road. Once inside the pipe, we’re completely out of sight of everyone, and there’s a sort of echo that makes everything we say sound more important, so Georgie and I have turned it into our secret clubhouse. We don’t have a club or anything. No members. No secret passwords. But we couldn’t think of a better name.
That’s where I knew I would find him. And I did.
When Georgie looked up, I saw that his eyes had that fat, swelled-up look that kids get when they’ve been crying. He sniffed, then rubbed his nose hard.
“I’ve got some really bad news.…………… Cheesie.”
Please look at the previous sentence.
I put those sixteen dots between the last two words because even though Georgie was talking at regular speed, my mind was zooming so fast that the split second between “bad news” and “Cheesie” lasted for a long time.
Here’s what the noise of my thinking sounded like:
Georgie was really mad. But he didn’t sounda bit sad or afraid. I think dying would make him sad and afraid. So I figured he didn’t have cancer or Ebola or stuff.
Maybe we weren’t friends anymore. But why would his father say he had bad news? It didn’t make sense.
That left just one possibility: I was pretty sure Georgie was moving away.
Georgie sniffed again, loud, and then said a word six times in a row that the people who print these books told me I definitely could not write. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Cheesie, my father told me I can’t go to camp.”
I hadn’t thought of
that
. We loved camp, and this year would be our fifth summer in a row. It lasts six weeks and is maximum fun.
“My father said he can’t afford it. He got laid off.” Georgie’s face was all scrunched, and his eyes started to get even puffier and redder.
Georgie’s father works worked for some kind of technology company. He’s a microwave transmission engineer. I don’t know what that means, but I knowit does not have anything to do with the microwave I use to heat frozen burritos.
Georgie picked up some pebbles. I leaned backward because I thought he was going to fling them hard. But he just clinked them against the metal wall of our clubhouse and slumped his head. I had never seen him this miserable.
Then I felt miserable because this summer at camp was going to be our best yet. It has to do with Big Guys and Little Guys.
Granpa (I forgot to mention that he’s the camp director) and his staff of counselors divide the boys at Camp Windward into two groups. Big Guys stay up later, play some different sports like lacrosse and flag football, and have dances and stuff with Camp Leeward, the girls’ camp next door.
Georgie and I have been Little Guys for the last four years. This year we would still be Little Guys, but our cabin would be the
oldest
of the Little Guys, which is terrific. We’d get to be in charge of Little Guys campfires, movie nights, the skit and talent show, color war, and lots of other great stuff. Nextyear we’ll be the youngest of the Big Guys. Not
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