Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders Read Online Free Page A

anymore,” I said.
    She laughed for a second. “Okay,” she said. “That’s fair. You don’t have to entertain me or anybody, but I’ve missed you this week.”
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    â€œNo,” Ms. Feagan said. “Don’t be sorry. You do what you need to do, okay?”
    I nodded and left, but that meant a lot to me. Ms. Feagan is meritorious. (That’s a vocabulary word from her class.)
    Yeah, the morning was quiet. The afternoon wasn’t.
    Band changed everything.
    Usually, the final day of band is a jam session. When I was a freshman, Mr. Shaver let us play our favorite songs of the year but also sort of improvise our parts, which was really hilarious. It was really, really great. Man, I love band. I love it, Mr. R. It’s so fun. And Shaver is an awesome teacher and no one acts like a jerk or calls anyone names (well, except Austin Bates). We just play music. Some of it is boring, but lots of it is loud and bouncy sounding. It’s so good. Last year, during the final day jam session, people got up and danced and whooped and crap. It was probably the best time I’ve ever had.
    I’m serious, sir. I love band.
    But this year, the last band class wasn’t the jam session I was expecting at all, and clearly, I needed some joy in my life, right?
    We all got to the band room and Mr. Shaver told us not to take our instruments out. He asked us to sit in our sections. His tone scared me. Dark.
    Tess Cook, who is an airhead and maybe half deaf/crazy, didn’t pay attention to instructions. She pulled out her clarinet and began to put it together and Mr. Shaver, who is about the sweetest dude in the world, flipped out. “Damn it, Tess. I said no instruments.” The room fell totally silent. We all stared at Shaver. I had a hard time swallowing because his shouting freaked me out. He’s not a yeller. He’s a sweet old dude. (I mean, I thought he was until last week.)
    Shaver got up on the riser, where he usually conducts. He said, “Big announcement. Big announcement. Sit down, Tess.”
    Tess was only up because she was putting her clarinet away. “What?” she asked. Her face turned red.
    â€œSit, kid. Jesus Christ,” Shaver said. “Jesus!”
    Tess sat with half her clarinet in her hand.
    My hands were shaking by that point. I felt faint. (I’d already had five Code Reds, which likely added to my shaking.)
    Then Shaver took this deep breath, shook his head, and delivered the blow. “I’m very sorry to say there will be no marching camp this summer.”
    There was an audible gasp. More like a hiss or a balloon losing air.
    Someone—I’m not sure who—shouted, “Why?”
    â€œUnforeseen circumstances,” Shaver said. “Changes. Things come up. Get used to it. Things get in the way in life. You all enjoy your time off.”
    â€œWait!” Camille shouted. “Seriously…why?”
    But Shaver had already stepped down from the riser. While we watched, mouths hanging open, he walked across the room to his office, walked in, and slammed the door.
    You might think the band would all riot or call out in anguish or something. Shouldn’t we have pounded on Shaver’s office, demanded an explanation, planned our resistance? No way. We all just sat there, barely breathing, waiting for Shaver to come back and further direct us about what we were supposed to do.
    No leadership in the house.
    The seniors were on their way out. It was their last day. They couldn’t give a flying squirt about marching. The juniors who will be seniors are a class almost totally devoid of any intelligence or talent. It’s like the smarts in this town skipped a generation. They can’t play music. They can barely read. They’re dirty and dumb.
    Yes, I’m happy to say that some of them are my friends now.
    But you have to have leaders if you’re going to fight the power, man.