Strays Read Online Free Page A

undressing over the speed limit.
    He walks over to his weights barefoot and does some exercises. He groans a little, huffing and puffing like the wolf in the three little pigs story, then drops his dumbbells on purpose.
    “You awake, Teddy?”
    “What do you think?”
    “You ever work out?” he asks.
    “No.”
    “You should work out.”
    “I hate athletes.”
    “It’s not so you can play sports. It’s so you can get laid.”
    I sit up in bed. “Oh, please.”
    “Get up.”
    “No.”
    He strides toward my bed. “Don’t be a candy ass. C’mon.”
    Oh, man. Here we go, I’ll bet. Just what C.W. said: Beat Up the New Guy. The funny thing is, I don’t much care. I just want to get it over with.
    He hands me two shiny dumbbells. He presses my elbows into my sides. “Now curl those up toward your shoulders.”
    I do it, but I’m thinking I’m pretty close to the door. I could drop these and run.
    “Ten times.” He steps back and watches. “Good. Feel that?” He takes hold of my biceps.
    I nod as I step away.
    “This is low weight/high reps. Like eight times a day. Plus some shoulder stuff. And some lat work. You’re not gonna bulk up like Arnold. You’re gonna get lean and mean. Girls want something hard to hold on to beside your pecker.”
    Maybe he’s not a goon, just a gym teacher. I put the weights down next to the others.
    “Good for you, man. That’s where they belong. Use ’em whenever you want, but put ’em back. And don’t touch anything else. I’m fanatical about my stuff, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Stick to the program and in three months you’ll see the difference. It takes like thirty minutes a day and then you’re not ashamed to look in a mirror anymore.” He throws back the bright blue blanket, gets into bed, and turns out the light. His light. “Silk sheets,” he says. “You ever sleep on silk sheets?”
    “No.”
    “They don’t cost that much. You got any money?”
    “Some.”
    “Good. Let’s get you some silk sheets.”
    So this is foster care — a top sergeant in a cowboy shirt, gallons of purple Kool-Aid, a sinister Noodle, and weight-lifting lessons in the middle of the night.

MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
    It was very big.
    There were many people.
    I talked to a counselor and I met Astin’s girlfriend.
    Then I went home.
    That’s the short version. C.W. and I walk there together. It’s not far, maybe ten blocks. All the neighborhood dogs come out because it’s fun to bark at kids. But when they see me, they stop. I tell them, “It’s okay; go on and enjoy yourselves.”
    Closer to school, the scene is a lot like the one at Santa Mira: a van with a hundred KROQ stickers, somebody trying to patch out in his mother’s old Toyota and a VW with Stonehenge-size speakers. The only thing missing is Scott McIntyre in his Mustang with a Slushee he bought just to throw at me.
    One or two kids dribble out of every front door and join up with another dozen. They spill into the street, then rush downhill — a river of hoodies, sneaks, jean jackets, and backpacks.
    All around C.W. and me, people shout at each other using the secret code they learned from MTV. “Hey, bay!” “You come through later, okay?”
    I didn’t talk to my classmates much, mostly grown-ups like my parents and teachers and people who came into the pet shop. I don’t think many patrons wanted to hear me say, “Why you buggin’, bustah? You know I’m down with yo pooch.”
    But all the noise does remind me to keep my voice as deep as I can. Not that my voice is high. Not very high, anyway.
    C.W. and I make our way to King/Chavez High, Land of the Colored Martyrs. We walk between two murals — MLK all pained but optimistic, and Cesar Chavez all noble and determined.
    “I hate the first day,” C.W. says. “You make one mistake and that’s it, man. For the rest of your life you’re the guy who farted in gym or the poor fuck who fell down goin’ up the stairs. Jail is easier. In jail the first