Into the Wild Nerd Yonder Read Online Free
Author: Julie Halpern
one of those times. “His name is Jake,” Polly gushes. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Yeah.” I smile, trying to look sincere. Polly leaves her binder open as Ms. Norton passes out this semester’s reading list and class expectations. I look at the picture of Jake and try to see what Polly sees. Maybe he has a nice voice or he’s really funny or crazy talented in whatever instrument he plays (I’m guessing the oboe). Did they kiss? Do more? I glance at Polly, and suddenly she looks about fifteen years older than she did two minutes ago. Summer sure can change people. Just not me.
chapter 4
I’M SLIGHTLY RELIEVED THAT I ENDED up with fifth-period lunch, while Bizza and Char have seventh period. I’d rather not have to deal. But that means that I either have to walk around the cafeteria with a “pick me” look of desperation while I try to figure out who I kind of know, or I can sit outside on a bench and eat while I listen to an audiobook on my iPod. No-brainer.
I munch an apple as I listen to a particularly gory scene in Stephen King’s
Cell
, where a zombie-type person rips off another zombie-type person’s ear. I’m pretty grossed out and consider whether to
re
consider this as a listening choice when I’m jerked away from the story by a grab on my shoulder. I look up and see the gorgeousness of Van. He asks me something, but I can’t hear him between the apple crunching and the flesh biting. I yank out my earbud.
“Hi.” I smile. “I didn’t know you had fifth-period lunch,” which, of course, makes it sound like I’m keeping track of his schedule and I should have been more on top of things.
“Yup,” he says, dangling his car keys from his finger. “You want to get out of here?” I nod, trying not to look as incredulousas I feel. Going out for a second lunch with Van. My hands barely work as I grab my stuff and follow him to his car.
Greenville High School is located on a major road across from a million fast-food restaurants and car dealerships. If you want to go out for lunch, it’s actually much faster to walk instead of having to deal with the onslaught of lunchtime traffic, but it’s not nearly as cool. Van’s car is what Barrett enviously refers to as “a classic pile of shit,” a Gremlin, which for those who have never seen one is about the grossest, ’70s-looking car on the planet. The outside of the car is a classic vomit green, while the inside is mustard yellow, yet it somehow looks cool. Probably because it belongs to Van.
Van is a somewhat legendary player (in the female sense, not in the actual instrument playing sense, so I guess I mean “playa,” but writing that just looks like “beach” in Spanish) on the local punk scene, according to Barrett. Loyal to a fault with his guy friends (he once got into a fight with a group of skinheads when they called Barrett a fag), Van is somewhat looser when it comes to the traditional boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Practically every week Barrett would tell our family a dinnertime tale involving Van and (fill in girl-of-the-week’s name here). I was never sure if Barrett did this because he thought the stories were actually amusing (they usually were) or if he was not so subtly trying to provide his little sister with a book full of Van precautionary tales. No matter how much crap Barrett talked about Van and le bimbo du jour, it didn’tstop me from playing around a fantasy in my head that when I’m old enough (not like I’ll catch up to him, but maybe he has a minimum age requirement for hookups), Van will declare his love for me, and tell me he’s done with the hoochie-of-the-week program, and that he never wants to screw around with anyone else but me.
Très
romantic, I know. But it’s hard not to turn to soup around a guy as annoyingly delicious as Van. He has that TV-show-bad-boy thing (he doesn’t speak as much as he sighs and smokes) going for him, which I’m a total sucker for. All I can hope is that he has a
“Yeah.” I smile, trying to look sincere. Polly leaves her binder open as Ms. Norton passes out this semester’s reading list and class expectations. I look at the picture of Jake and try to see what Polly sees. Maybe he has a nice voice or he’s really funny or crazy talented in whatever instrument he plays (I’m guessing the oboe). Did they kiss? Do more? I glance at Polly, and suddenly she looks about fifteen years older than she did two minutes ago. Summer sure can change people. Just not me.
chapter 4
I’M SLIGHTLY RELIEVED THAT I ENDED up with fifth-period lunch, while Bizza and Char have seventh period. I’d rather not have to deal. But that means that I either have to walk around the cafeteria with a “pick me” look of desperation while I try to figure out who I kind of know, or I can sit outside on a bench and eat while I listen to an audiobook on my iPod. No-brainer.
I munch an apple as I listen to a particularly gory scene in Stephen King’s
Cell
, where a zombie-type person rips off another zombie-type person’s ear. I’m pretty grossed out and consider whether to
re
consider this as a listening choice when I’m jerked away from the story by a grab on my shoulder. I look up and see the gorgeousness of Van. He asks me something, but I can’t hear him between the apple crunching and the flesh biting. I yank out my earbud.
“Hi.” I smile. “I didn’t know you had fifth-period lunch,” which, of course, makes it sound like I’m keeping track of his schedule and I should have been more on top of things.
“Yup,” he says, dangling his car keys from his finger. “You want to get out of here?” I nod, trying not to look as incredulousas I feel. Going out for a second lunch with Van. My hands barely work as I grab my stuff and follow him to his car.
Greenville High School is located on a major road across from a million fast-food restaurants and car dealerships. If you want to go out for lunch, it’s actually much faster to walk instead of having to deal with the onslaught of lunchtime traffic, but it’s not nearly as cool. Van’s car is what Barrett enviously refers to as “a classic pile of shit,” a Gremlin, which for those who have never seen one is about the grossest, ’70s-looking car on the planet. The outside of the car is a classic vomit green, while the inside is mustard yellow, yet it somehow looks cool. Probably because it belongs to Van.
Van is a somewhat legendary player (in the female sense, not in the actual instrument playing sense, so I guess I mean “playa,” but writing that just looks like “beach” in Spanish) on the local punk scene, according to Barrett. Loyal to a fault with his guy friends (he once got into a fight with a group of skinheads when they called Barrett a fag), Van is somewhat looser when it comes to the traditional boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Practically every week Barrett would tell our family a dinnertime tale involving Van and (fill in girl-of-the-week’s name here). I was never sure if Barrett did this because he thought the stories were actually amusing (they usually were) or if he was not so subtly trying to provide his little sister with a book full of Van precautionary tales. No matter how much crap Barrett talked about Van and le bimbo du jour, it didn’tstop me from playing around a fantasy in my head that when I’m old enough (not like I’ll catch up to him, but maybe he has a minimum age requirement for hookups), Van will declare his love for me, and tell me he’s done with the hoochie-of-the-week program, and that he never wants to screw around with anyone else but me.
Très
romantic, I know. But it’s hard not to turn to soup around a guy as annoyingly delicious as Van. He has that TV-show-bad-boy thing (he doesn’t speak as much as he sighs and smokes) going for him, which I’m a total sucker for. All I can hope is that he has a
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