My Big Mouth

by Peter Hannan

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Monday, March 6th

  Tuesday, March 7th

  Blah

  Wednesday, March 8th

  Gerald’s Game

  Birth of a Band

  Thursday, March 9th

  Gerald, Up Close and Personal

  Friday, March 10th

  Saturday, March 11th & Sunday, March 12th

  Monday, March 13th

  Dinner Conversation

  Tuesday, March 14th

  Wednesday, March 15th

  Siren

  Thursday, March 16th

  Yes

  Friday, March 17th

  Saturday, March 18th

  Sunday, March 19th

  Monday, March 20th

  Tuesday, March 21st

  Wednesday, March 22nd

  Thursday, March 23rd

  Friday, March 24th

  Saturday, March 25th - Monday, March 27th

  Tuesday, March 28th - Wednesday, March 29th

  Half-Dead

  Thursday, March 30th

  Friday, March 31st

  Girl in the Mist

  Down at the End of Dojo Street

  In the Car

  Saturday, April 1st

  Dock of Destiny

  Showtime

  A Song too Far

  Okay, You May Stop Now. Please. I Mean It. Now. Pretty Please?

  A Helping Hand

  All You Don’t Need is Love

  Molly Speaks

  Down Under

  Back on Dry Land

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Everybody knows why guys start bands: to get girls. But that’s not why I started the Amazing Dweebs. I did it for one girl. I had no clue that girls and bands were such a dangerous combination.

  I saw Molly coming down the hall that Monday, the very first time I stepped into Woodrow Wilson High. I found out her name almost instantly because people kept saying it: Hi, Molly. Where are you going, Molly? WAIT UP, MOLLY!

  I transferred schools in ninth grade late that year. Really late … one month before spring break. Thanks a lot, Pops. He said it would be better to meet some kids to hang out with during the summer than to wait until fall. Yeah, right. We both knew it was just because of when his new job started. My mom had died the year before, so we were trying to start a whole new life: new house, new school, new town. Except it felt like the same old life. Only worse. We’d moved eighty-seven miles, from one crappy school to another.

  It was at the very moment I saw Molly that I finally understood what the whole girl thing was about. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have a clue before. There had been lots of clues. But now they all added up to Molly. The way she walked, the way she talked, everything about the way she just was: reddish hair, not too neat, not too messy; tons of freckles — some people don’t like freckles, but those are people we call tons of stupid; black Converse; and a skirt. Pretty, a little tomboyish, but smiling, laughing, funny, a lot of attitude. What a girl.

  And get this: She was wearing a Mad Manny the Monkey T-shirt. Mad Manny was the mascot for a chain of stores called Guitar Jungle. They had a series of insane TV commercials that were super-surreal. Each was totally low budget and bizarre in its own way. But they all ended with a guy in a monkey suit swinging in on a vine, playing an electric guitar and howling, “This is Mad Manny the Monkey saying, ‘Swing on down to Guitar Jungle. Our prices will drive you bananas!’” And then he would crash off camera, making a gigantic racket of breaking glass, followed by wild monkey chatter. Mad Manny was mad-angry, mad-crazy, and mad-cool. A so-bad-it’s-good kind of thing. The ads were a litmus test. Most people hated them. If you loved them, you were okay in my book.

  Molly was way beyond okay. She was in a much better book, on a much higher shelf. I knew instantly that I would never — could never — talk to her. You probably think I couldn’t know that from way down the hall, but believe me, it was obvious. I saw her … and I knew me. She disappeared down another corridor and I stared at the spot where she’d been standing.

  BLAM! My trance was broken by the unmistakable flesh-on-metal slam, rattle, and owww of a student/locker collision. I turned in time to see a huge kid towering over a small kid who was lying on the floor. Actually, it was hard to determine the size of that kid because he was curled up into a ball. He was rocking and moaning in a way that seemed to say, Okay, you hurt me. Now please leave me to my misery.

  But Gorilla Dude wasn’t satisfied. He faked like he was going to punch the little guy in the head.

  The kid flinched and instantly started to cry. “Don’t hit me … don’t hit me … don’t hit me …”

  Bingo. Big goon got what he wanted.

  He laughed and strolled down the hallway in my direction. He was like a bully from central casting … the muscles, the swagger, the smirk. Didn’t he realize he was a walking cliché? Don’t these idiots see movies or watch TV? I was almost embarrassed for him.

  Totally terrified of him, too, of course.

  Cliché or not, there will always be boneheads who want to be bullies. Unfortunately, the bully thing works.

  Just then, a funny little lady popped out of the school office and waved to me. She didn’t even notice the crime scene to her left. By then, the victim was on his knees, digging through his locker and pretending that nothing had happened. (The tormented typically helps the tormentor cover up the crime.)

  The huge bully kid walked toward the lady and greeted her like they were best friends.

  “Hi, Mrs. Toople,” he said, smiling and waving as he passed her. “Hope you’re having a great Monday.”

  “Oh, you, too, Gerald!” she said in a falsetto that made me think of a man trying to sound like a lady. “Monday is my favorite day of the week!” She approached me. “Davis, I presume?”

  “You presume right.”

  Her smile got even bigger. Wow. She was unbelievably enthusiastic. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Toople, the office coordinator! How are you today?”

  “Monday is my favorite day of the week,” I said.

  “Mine, too!” she chirped, missing my sarcasm. “Here’s your locker number and combination!” She handed me a few sheets of paper. “And your class schedule. Follow me!”

  She turned and almost crashed into the principal.

  “Oops!” said Toople. “Excuse us, Mr. Rigo! Meet Davis … This is his very first day!”

  “Right,” Mr. Rigo said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I remember chatting with your dad. So, how was the move?” He had to know that my mom died. The hand-on-the-shoulder thing was a total tip-off.

  “Good, good,” I stammered.

  “Well, ‘good-good’ is twice as good as ‘good,’” he said, glancing at the hall clock. “Okay, I have a conference to get to, so you have a good-good first day. You, too, Mrs. Toople.”

  “All righty! All righty!” said Mrs. Toople.

  Was she high on happy pills?

  She continued cheerfully, leading me down the hall. “Over there’s the nearest boys’ room, and there are more around the school of course, so, you know, if you need one, we have them. Well, of course we have them. And here’s the gym. Never met a boy who didn’t like gym!”

  She hadn’t met me.

  Mrs. Toople dropped me off at my first class ever at Woodrow Wilson: first-period English. She cracked open the door and sang out, “Knock, knock! Hellooo? Miss Danderbrook?”

  Miss Danderbrook was standing up front, addressing thirty-odd half-asleep students. She froze in mid-sentence, her index finger in the air. Then she turned to us, mouth open wide … silent.

  “Miss Danderbrook, students,” said To
ople, “say hello to Davis, the new boy from Delaware!”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m not from Delaware …”

  But nobody heard that, because they were whining in that super-bored voice all students use when asked to repeat something back like kindergarteners: “Helll-lllllo, Day-visssssss …”

  Danderbrook was tall and thin, probably about my dad’s age, but she seemed older because of what she was wearing. It was your basic English teacher/librarian uniform: cardigan sweater, white button-down blouse, skirt below the knee, and — here’s the kicker — glasses with that chain around the neck. Those are pretty much the universal symbol for I think I’m smart and I know I’m old.

  “We’re taking a test today, Davis,” she said, “but since you obviously haven’t done the reading, you can just take a seat and make yourself comfortable for the next forty minutes.”

  Comfortable, right. No problem. Except that I have never been comfortable in my entire life. I tend to be on the nervous side. I fidget. I drum my fingers on tabletops, wiggle my toes in my shoes, and doodle constantly.

  There was one empty seat toward the back of the room and I headed for it, avoiding eye contact. I sat down, pulled out my notebook, and drew a picture of a dog floating in midair above a pond stocked with piranhas. The dog’s eyes were bugging out, his teeth chattering. He looked like the most flustered, freaked-out critter on Earth.

  The dog was definitely me.

  I filled up three or four more pages with drawings, scribbles, and odd thoughts. I drew a very unflattering picture of Danderbrook, not because I had anything against her, but just because she was, you know, a teacher.

  The bell rang and everyone groaned. I closed my notebook.

  “Okay, people,” said Danderbrook, “hand them over.”

  Everyone groaned again as they stood up. It was only then that I noticed that Molly was in the class and had been sitting a couple of desks back the whole time. I couldn’t believe it. I had assumed she was a junior, or at least a sophomore. I guess that’s why Mom always said I should keep my head up — I might see something worth seeing. She also said that I needed to forget my nervousness and talk to people. But thinking about that just made me a lot more nervous. What would I say to a girl like Molly? Nice shirt, I love Mad Manny the Monkey, too? It sounded so creepy and random, like a sleazy pickup line. Molly had no idea who I was.

  She walked right by me, and I thought of my mom again. She would want me to try.

  So, I panicked and attempted to say something … but then changed my mind.

  My mouth has a slower turn-off switch than my brain, so a small, birdlike squawk came out. It was a ridiculous sound. Someone hearing it would either think I was mentally deficient or just totally wacko.

  Molly didn’t turn around or anything, so I figured maybe she didn’t hear. Thank god. She handed her test to Danderbrook and headed into the hallway, instantly surrounded by girls.

  She was like the nucleus of an atom; her friends buzzed around her like electrons. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked a little bored by the attention. Almost like she had been popular for so long, she was tired of it and wanted to be something else. But she didn’t look mean or impatient or anything. That was the thing — she didn’t seem stuck-up, like most popular girls.

  For the rest of the day, I was on the lookout for Molly. I went about my business — first, to my locker. The combination worked fine, but the door jammed and when I yanked on it, it unstuck, rattled loudly, and whacked me in the knee.

  “Oww,” I said to myself, teeth clenched like a ventriloquist, hoping no one had witnessed my little spaz attack.

  Then to biology, lunch, Spanish. I met teachers, other students. But I remember almost nothing about all that. It turned out that Molly wasn’t in any of my other classes, so all that sticks out are a few TMMs: Tiny Molly Moments.

  9:42 AM:

  Walking down the hall, the back of her head bobbing for a moment in a sea of bored humanity before vanishing again.

  11:16 AM:

  Through the window in math class, Molly in gym shorts, walking outside in a line of girls with field-hockey sticks.

  Lunch:

  Molly sitting with friends. Me sitting alone.

  1:53 PM:

  Passing by the doorway of a classroom, Molly’s high-tops on the ends of her perfect legs, stretched out in front of her desk.

  When I got home that afternoon, I started my homework. After a while, Dad arrived with Chinese takeout. We sat down on the couch and loaded up our plates. Dad flipped on the TV. He never missed the news, even though he complained all the way through it.

  A commercial was on, so he turned to me and asked, “How’d your first day go?”

  “It went.”

  “Did you meet anyone?”

  “Nope, not really.” I stabbed a piece of kung pao chicken with my fork.

  “You can’t name one person you met?”

  “Okay, okay … Molly.”

  “Good, that’s a start. Molly. Is this a friend friend, or more than a friend?”

  “A non-friend.” Luckily, the news started up again.

  We ate and watched, and every single thing about the broadcast irritated Dad. “You can fool ninety-nine point nine percent of the people ninety-nine point nine percent of the time. Remember that.”

  “How could I forget?” I said. “You say it every night.”

  We chewed chow mein in silence.

  “Five times a week, tops,” he replied.

  The next day, I arrived at school, dumped my stuff in my locker — which stuck again, owww — and headed for Danderbrook’s room. I was determined to say hello to Molly, only this time not in Insane Bird-ese.

  But when I got there, Molly wasn’t at her desk.

  The bell rang. Still no Molly.

  “Edwin,” said Danderbrook, “would you kindly bring Molly her homework? She has a student council off-site today.”

  “No problem,” said a short kid with thick glasses and hair that almost totally covered them. He looked even smaller because he slouched down low in his chair, eyes just barely peering over the desktop. He talked out of the side of his mouth like a gangster in an old movie or something. “Her house is only two and a half miles out of my way. If I walk four miles an hour, the typical speed of a typical human — even though I’m far from typical — that would rob me of merely thirty-seven and a half minutes of my life. No big deal. I certainly have nothing better to do with my time.”

  But Danderbrook didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “That’s enough, Edwin.”

  Really. What was this kid’s problem? He was apparently deeply in love with the sound of his own voice.

  Sure enough, after class in the hallway, Edwin was still talking, even though he was alone. I was walking along near him and eventually realized that his chatter was for my benefit. He didn’t look at me, just kept running off at the mouth, making sure I was the only one to hear.

  “Oh, wonderful,” he said. “Look what we have here, the Prince of Dunceness himself.”

  Up ahead, Gerald was leaning against the wall, hand cupped to his mouth like a megaphone. He chanted in a low, frog-like voice, in rhythm with Edwin’s steps: “Dweeb, dweeb, dweebity, dweeb …”

  It seemed like Edwin was used to it. He pretended not to notice. Instead, he just murmured under his breath. “Dunce, dunce, dunce-ity, dunce …”

  “Who is this Gerald joker, anyway?” I said softly to Edwin. “Isn’t he embarrassed to be such a typical bonehead?”

  “You give him too much credit,” Edwin replied, still not looking at me as he talked. And talked. It felt like the kind of secret conversation two inmates have in a prison yard.

  “He actually thinks he’s special … the one and only Gerald Boggs. But he hates the name Gerald, which is why he has so many nicknames: Big G, G-Man, and his favorite, the Butcher. My favorite is Gerald the Idiot Turd-faced Baboon. Okay, I made that one up. The Butcher is all-county quarterback, all-state wres
tler, and all-galaxy fool. He is also the leader of a moronic band called the Butchers. Clever — his name is ‘the Butcher’ and the band is called ‘the Butchers.’ Couldn’t it at least be ‘Butcher and the Cuts of Meat’ or something? Anyway, his family is rolling in dough, so he isn’t just a jerk — he’s a spoiled-rotten-rich jerk. The worst kind.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Gym was next, so I stopped at my locker to grab my gym clothes. Edwin kept walking. He didn’t even say good-bye or anything. Zero eye contact.

  My locker stuck again, but this time I avoided banging my knee. I stood there and watched Gerald for a minute from behind my locker door. He seemed a lot older. He had a mustache, and not a peach-fuzz one, either. He was probably born with it. I could totally see him sucking on a baby bottle with that hairy lip. He traveled with a small pack of psychopaths. They walked in wedge formation, parting the hallway crowd like the Red Sea.

  The bell rang and the hall was instantly deserted. I grabbed my gym clothes, slammed my locker door, and took off.

  “Yoo-hoo! No running, Davis!” chirped a familiar voice. “Maybe running is allowed in those Delaware schools, but not here,” Mrs. Toople continued.

  “Actually, running is required in all Delaware hallways,” I said. “But today I’m just late.”

  “No excuse,” she said, unfazed. “The policy is for your own safety, dear.”

  Please, please, please don’t call me ‘dear,’ I thought. I didn’t even let my mother call me ‘dear.’

  I walked slowly until I turned the corner, then broke into a sprint again. But I came to a dead end where I thought the gym was.

  Edwin emerged from a bathroom. “Hey, it’s the new kid … the lost new kid,” he said. “What’s the matter? Lose your compass? You can wander aimlessly for the rest of your life, or you can ask somebody. Me, for instance.”

  “Locker room?” I kept it short and sweet. Unlike some people I knew.

  “You’re more lost than I thought,” he said, pulling out a wad of hall passes, all signed and rolled up like paper money. “First of all, you’ll need this. Go that way, take a left, all the way down, through the breezeway, and another left. The good news is, you’ll be there.”