The Beginning of Everything Read Online Free

he’d mention it. “Have you been back?” I asked.
    â€œAre you kidding? I’m there every single day. They gave me a free lifetime pass. I’m like the mayor of Adventureland.”
    â€œSo no, then,” I said.
    â€œHave you?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œYou could get a handicapped pass,” Toby pressed. “Skip all of the lines.”
    â€œNext time I ask a girl on a date, I’ll be sure to mention that.”
    For some reason, I didn’t mind Toby giving me crap about the cane. And I was generally pretty sensitive about it. You would be too, if you’d spent most of your summer vacation trying to get your well-meaning but overbearing mother to stop hovering outside the bathroom door every time you took a shower. (She was paranoid that I’d slip and die, since I’d refused to let her install those metal handrails. I was paranoid that she’d come inside and catch me, uh, showering.)
    â€œWhat are you doing for Team Electives?” Toby asked. We had a four-year requirement.
    â€œSpeech and debate,” I admitted, suddenly realizing that Toby might be in my class.
    â€œDude, I’m team captain this year! You should compete.”
    â€œI’m just taking it for the requirement,” I said. “Debate’s not really my thing.”
    Back then, my impression of the debate team was that it was a bunch of guys who put on business suits during the weekend and thought they actually had something meaningful to say about foreign policy because they were enrolled in AP Government.
    â€œMaybe not, but you owe me. I got us out of the pep rally,” Toby protested.
    â€œWe’re even. I told Tug Mason not to piss in your backpack in the eighth-grade locker room.”
    â€œYou still owe me. He pissed in my Gatorade instead.”
    â€œHuh, I’d forgotten about that.”
    The bell rang then.
    â€œHey, Faulkner, want to know something depressing?” Toby asked, picking up his bag.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFirst period hasn’t even started yet.”

4
    THE ONE INTERESTING thing about being signed up for speech and debate was that I’d been given a Humanities Odd schedule. Eastwood High is on block scheduling, and ever since freshman year, my schedule had been Humanities Even, with the other athletes. But not anymore.
    I had first period AP Euro, which was unfortunate because 1) Mr. Anthony, the tennis coach, was the AP Euro teacher, and 2) his classroom was on the second floor of the 400 building, which meant that 3) I had to get up a flight of stairs.
    Over the summer, stairs had become my nemesis, and I often went out of my way to avoid a public confrontation with them. I was supposed to pick up an elevator key from the front office; it came in a matching set with that little blue parking tag for my car, the one I was never, ever going to display.
    By the time I got to AP Euro via a rarely used stairwell near the staff parking lot, Mr. Anthony had already begun taking roll. He paused briefly to frown at me over the manila folder, and I cringed in silent apology as I slid into a seat in the back.
    When he called my name, I mumbled “here,” without looking up. I was surprised he’d actually called me. Usually, teachers did this thing when they reached my name on the roll sheet: “Ezra Faulkner is here,” they’d say, putting a tick in the box before moving on down the list. It was as though they were pleased to have me, as though my presence meant the class would be better somehow.
    But when Coach A paused after calling my name and I had to confirm for him that I was in the room even though he knew damn well that I’d walked in thirty seconds late, I wondered for a moment if I really was there. I glanced up, and Coach A was giving me that glare he used whenever we weren’t hustling fast enough during practice.
    â€œConsider this your tardiness warning, Mr. Faulkner,” he said.
    â€œSo