Teen Angst? Naaah ... Read Online Free Page A

half of the derby was the same as the first but drunker—more rowdy cheers, more mangled autos. Four cars remained. Number Twenty-three got blind-sided and whipped around, slamming into Number Sixteen. Sixteen revved his engine too fast, and a piece of tire ripped off and flew across the stadium.
    Then, finally, Dickhead and Bonehead faced off. I decided to root for Dickhead—the underdog, the sly trickster, constantly running from danger. Except he didn’t always run successfully. Bonehead gave him a few good hits, tore off his bumpers, and crumpled up his hood like a mountain range.
    Front end skewed, engine dragging, parts trailing, Dickhead gave one last gasp as his engine fell out. By then, it was no longer even a car—just a heap of metal with three wheels. The announcer thundered, “We
haaaave
a champion!”
    A dinky recorded version of the national anthem played over the loudspeakers. The clowns rushed out and presented Bonehead’s driver with a nine-hundred-dollar check and a medal. He gave the audience a grimy smile.
    The two mothers walked with us out of the stadium, back through that stone arch, rehashing the details of our AC/DC Demolition Derby World Tour.
    Daniel: “You could have the whole band playing on a see-through net, like, above the derby.”
    Mother #1: “I don’t think you can stand up or play drums on a net.”
    Me: “Forget about the drums. We already said electronic drums.”
    Dad: “I hate electronic drums.”
    Me: “Who cares?”
    We found Mom and Nora, and on our way out of the county fair, I bought a T-shirt that read “35 th Annual Destructo-rama Derby.” The suburban kids eyed it jealously as I walked behind my family.
    * Miss Daugherty was much younger than me, and she was doing something better than I ever could do it—that’s why I booed. Even in junior high I was hypercompetitive, and I loved it when other people failed. Sorry.
    ** Beavis and Butt-head were the animated stars of the
Beavis and Butt-head
television show, one of humankind’s more accomplished satires. They made fun of teenage television-addicted wasteoid culture by analyzing music videos and setting things on fire.
    * A car was officially out of the derby if it didn’t move for fifteen seconds. When that time had elapsed, the announcer would pipe up from his booth, “Number Sixty-four, turn off your engine. Don’t even try to move. It’s
aaaall
over.”
    * An Australian rock band. What I love most about them is that after their first singer, Bon Scott, met his “death by misadventure” (aka alcohol-related stuff—but seriously, that’s on his death certificate), they found another singer who sounded
just
like him and went on to play for three decades and counting.
    ** AC/DC’s best song.

ARE WE ALTERNATIVE NOW?
    W hen I was thirteen, I went to my friend Ike’s house and formed a band called Wormwhole. I provided percussion (I banged some drumsticks together) and Ike, who thought up the name, played acoustic guitar.
    A few things about Ike: First, he’s a cool guy, one of my best friends, and I’m privileged to know him. Second, he’s a big, buff Mayan dude—he was born in Central America, where, I learned, the Mayans were conquered by the Spanish in 1519, * but he
swears
he has full-on Mayan warrior blood in him. That probably accounts for his workout schedule: Ike’s room is a mini gym full of punching bags, weights, and rowing machines, and he constantly uses them. His biceps are as thick as my neck.
    Ike is also a vampire enthusiast. He owns a huge collection of vampire books; he has dark robes, teeth, and vampire figurines strewn all over his room. He once told me he really
was
a vampire—he claimedhe’d been abducted as a baby and taught “the ways of the night” in Costa Rica.
    To complement his vampire fixation, Ike has a large collection of knives, which