Stupid Fast Read Online Free

Zoo—completely gross and weird—which made my heart bang in my chest, completely proving I was dying.
    Imagine all of them staring at me with their mouths open wide.
    For years after that, my classmates would whisper softly to me, “Gus, Gus, Gus,” and look at me sweetly but not sweet at all.
    That’s not funny either, by the way.
    If Gus weren’t my best friend and also sort of lacking in friends himself, he would probably have stopped being my friend because he caught so much crap too.
    That wasn’t the only time Jerri suggested I re-engage. There are probably ten more incidents I could report through the years. But it’s late (1:23 a.m.).
    And after I’d re-engage and freak out because of re-engaging, Jerri always ended up having to keep me home from school for weeks at a time and had to hug me a lot and cook me grilled cheese sandwiches and say sorry over and over.
    All that stopped.
    I made myself stop freaking out so much starting a couple of years ago. I got tired of being the center of attention. I don’t like attention—did not anyway—and I got tired of being hugged, and I got tired of Jerri saying sorry to me. It’s not like Jerri murdered Dad. Dad murdered Dad, right?
    But I suppose my post-Regional dry-heaving put Jerri back in the mood.
    Re-engage. Re-engage, donkey. I sure didn’t like Jerri saying the word re-engage.
    ***
    Two days after Tayraysa’s call, I ate those bagels and regained some of my strength and sanity. I went back to school in time to turn in my English research report about what I want to be when I grow up (titled “Standup Comedy: Take My Wife…Please”) and to take my stupid finals and to bid fare thee well to the senior class full of honkies and poop-stinkers and, of course, to Gus, who was leaving.
    “I’m sorry, Felton,” Gus said as we exited Bluffton High on the last day of school, the sun beating down on our heads, our eyes squinty.
    “You should be,” I said as we walked toward the bike rack.
    “I don’t have any friends in Caracas, man,” he grimaced, unlocking his bike.
    “I don’t have any friends in Suckville,” I said as we pedaled away.
    “What about Peter Yang?” he asked, now a block from the school.
    “Something’s gone amiss,” I told him, a look of resignation on my face.
    “At least Peter Yang has a driver’s license,” he said, nearing his turnoff.
    “That’s true,” I agreed as he turned.
    “We can Skype, dude,” he shouted, biking away.
    “Chapter over,” I mumbled, heading toward home.
    ***
    Bleak. Bleak. Bleak.
    Summer. Summer. Summer.

CHAPTER 5: I MEAN, MAN! I USED TO LOVE SUMMER!
    I have very fond memories actually.
    Every summer before this summer, we’d go camping at least once. For example, the summer after freshman year, Jerri took me and Andrew camping at Wyalusing State Park, right where the Wisconsin River cuts the state and hits the Mississippi. Where there are really high bluffs and huge trees and watery sand bars and little streams that look like mountain streams on TV flowing down the bluffs and ravines that cut through the forest and hiking trails right through it all. We spent two full days exploring.
    Even though I hadn’t hit my growth spurt and hadn’t become stupid fast, I was already a jumper. I’d leap across ravines and Jerri would shout “Felton’s a bobcat!” and Andrew, who apparently didn’t think athletic prowess was bad for a young man at that time, would ask me to do it again because I looked so cool in flight.
    At night, Jerri made campfires, and we roasted marshmallows, and we sat around and sang while she played guitar. She sang me “You Are My Sunshine” like twenty times, which I really liked, and all three of us sang “Rocky Mountain High” and “Country Road.”
    Jerri is a great singer. She sounds professional. “Love me some John Denver,” she’d say. She’s a good mom too. She’s really been a good mom. Really. She took us camping every summer before this summer. And