While I was spending my day with you at the police station, Randall and Ms. Feagan visited Dad at the house to tell him that even though robbing the machine was stupid, I was right to rebel generally. Randall convinced Dad to bring me to the concert if I got out of jail in time.
That was one of the calls you took? From Dad?
Okay.
After Kailey’s parents set us all free (did you see Mrs. Kaus? She looked like she’d been run over by a truck), Dad and Grandpa drove me straight to Spunk River Days. I was not expecting that and I wasn’t very happy about it. I hadn’t slept and my body scrapes were all burning up and my stretchy pants were sliding down my butt because I didn’t eat almost anything for like 30 hours and I’d already been dropping weight before that. I was all like, “No! I don’t want to go! Take me home! Lock me in the basement, please!”
Dad didn’t respond. Grandpa said, “You gotta see this through, buddy.”
And so I did.
There were five thousand people at Wilson Beach. That’s bigger than the whole town of Minnekota, man. Wall of Sound is a big deal. Security guys at the event just kept nodding and waving us through the sea of people. Dad drove me right up behind the band shell.
I got out of the car and there they all were—Austin in his sagging shorts (like my stretchies), Tess in her bikini top, Schae and Omar and Caitlyn and everybody.
Yeah. Everybody. Justin and Camille too. Those guys had their instruments in one hand and were holding hands with the other. I sort of cried when I saw them. We all hugged pretty hard. Justin has to pay off all these repairs to his dad’s car interior. Sheep hooves cut right through the fabric, I guess.
Everybody cheered when I got there too, which is also maybe what made me cry.
It’s all sort of a blur. Ms. Feagan was back there. She pulled me aside and said I was on tap to give a short speech. I shrugged. The concert started. There were so many people, I could barely move. But everyone danced, which I liked. Wall of Sound played for forty-five minutes or so. Then Randall Andersson stopped singing and started talking about how important music programs were to him growing up. How he always had a hard time talking, always felt awkward, out of place, like a total outsider in his own hometown until Barry Shaver stuck a trombone in his hand. When he said the name Barry Shaver, everyone in the crowd cheered like crazy. Mr. Shaver has a lot of support in Minnekota, even if he acted like an idiot. Then Randall said, “In the past few weeks, there’s been a concerted effort to remove music from the high school here in the Lake Area.” People booed for about a minute straight. The booing was so loud, I could feel it vibrating in my chest. “But your kids wouldn’t take it. They wouldn’t accept their fate. Your kids stood up!” The boos turned to cheers. All the Geekers slapped me on the back. “Allow me to introduce you to Gabriel Johnson, leader of the resistance, and the rest of the Minnekota Lake Area High School Band!” All five thousand people screamed.
I stood back there behind the band shell, totally stunned, sir. I couldn’t process, you know? Then Justin put his hand on my shoulder and shouted in my ear, “Get moving, man! Go!”
I climbed up the steps. The Geekers climbed up behind me. The audience cheered like crazy. Randall handed me a mic. The sun set over the lake, so everything turned orange. I scanned the crowd in front of me. Ms. Feagan stood next to Dad right up front. And Gore and her dad stood next to Grandpa. Gore was just spilling tears too. I gave her a big smile and swallowed and looked out across the whole town of faces and just said, “We love you guys! The MLAHS band loves you. Everybody. It’s been such a crazy few days. We didn’t mean to do any harm at all. We don’t want to stop anyone from doing what they love, okay? We want the cheerleaders to dance and…and we want RC III out there throwing touchdowns for the football team. We don’t want to take anything away from anyone because we all need our thing. Geekers have to geek out, right?”
The crowd whooped.
But seriously. “We really need our thing. So much. We’re a band. We play music. We need to keep being a band! Thank you!”
I know. Not the greatest speech. But I didn’t want to go on and on, you know?
“How about a little rendition of ‘Tequila,’ Gabe?” Randall Andersson asked.
“Yeah. Yeah,” I nodded. “Let’s do it!”
Then Austin and Omar started pounding their drums and Jake from Wall of Sound started pounding along. Then Randall began directing. He gestured like Mr. Shaver and everybody on stage laughed. Then everybody in my band and his band (except me because I didn’t have my ’bone) raised their instruments and then bam. My band and Wall of Sound played the greatest version of “Tequila” ever played. Everybody danced. Everybody whooped and spun around. Everybody shouted “Tequila” at the right moment. All five thousand, including Gore, my dad, and my grandpa.
Pretty amazing.
Wall of Sound played another few songs. We slid back down the back steps. I had reporters from a few papers grab me right away. They’d already talked to Ms. Feagan. They’d talked to Chief Bartell. They knew all about the Spunk River War. They knew that I’d sent apology notes to the cheerleaders about the dirty pics. I told the story about the pop machine, how it nearly killed me. I told them about robbing it but how it wasn’t a robbery because Kailey Kaus was protesting with us and I said that she and J. D. Carlson were returning all the money. (I made that part up. Turns out J. D. couldn’t return all the money because he’d already spent some of it by the time he was arrested Sunday.) I said that I was tired of being called names and that I’d learned how crappy it is to call people names in general. Even if you think those people don’t care, they care and it hurts and robs people of their dignity. I sure hated being called a lard ass. I’m sure the cheerleaders didn’t enjoy getting called cheer bitches. I think that’s where the “Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders” headline came from. I told that story. But didn’t the Fargo reporter understand me? I don’t like getting called names!
Ha-ha. Right. Better laugh than cry. In this case.
Yeah, I talked to RC III Monday. He said, “Pops heard you on the radio. Says you should be proud.”
I guess RC III’s pops doesn’t think RC III should be proud. He flew to Atlanta on Tuesday.
I haven’t heard at all from Kailey. Do you know what’s happening with her?
Justin told me last night that the dance school has a “For Sale” sign in front of it.
What about Gore?
Am I blushing?
Since I’m grounded, she’s coming over for dinner tonight. She came over last night too. And Monday night. Me, her, and Grandpa hung out in the backyard. We had some lemonade. Grandpa was a little freaked out by her black clothes and fingernails and stuff. He definitely likes her though. “You don’t raise your voice and squawk like a chicken much, do you?” he asked her last night.
“No,” she said.
“I appreciate that.”
Speaking of Grandpa. He’s flapping the banana hammock at us. See that?
Waving it. We ran two miles yesterday. We’re swimming today, doing the Spunk River Challenge.
Oh, man. Oh, man. Why didn’t I get a new suit? I’m going to strangle my boys again? I’m going to go all beached whale on it again?
Yeah. Ha-ha. It’s worth it. Of course, Mr. Rodriguez. Who cares?
I’m in control of my dignity. I have my dignity, for sure.
Thanks, sir. Thanks again for your help.
Time to swim. Take care, Mr. R.
AFTERWORD
The preceding document was submitted to Minnesota’s Seventh District Court as part of a successful lawsuit against the Minnekota Lake Area School Board, which led to the reinstatement of the high school’s band program and a pending review of the release of its director, Barry Shaver.
Regarding the vending machine break-in, no charges were ever filed against Robert Carter, Chandra Wettlinger, Kailey K
aus, or Gabriel Johnson. Rick Kaus, the CEO of the Kaus Company, submitted that Kailey was simply doing her job by collecting the money. Because Robert Carter had a key to the school and no district policy exists against athletes using the school after hours, no charges of trespassing were leveled.
Regarding other items related to the so-called Spunk River War, Seth Sellers and Janessa Rogers received fines for disorderly conduct. Mike Timlin and Raj Weigel pled guilty to a variety of misdemeanor charges, including petty theft and possession of illegal fireworks. Sentencing is pending. Camille Gardener and Justin Cornell received fines for trespassing and vandalism. They drove two sheep to the MLA High School in the backseat of Justin’s car. Justin is paying for repairs to said car in a private settlement with his parents.
Katherine Kaus, who chaired the school board during its ruling on vending proceeds, its decision to fire band director Barry Shaver, and its ruling that suspended the MLAHS band program, resigned from her post in the week following the upheaval. Although the Kaus Company continues operations in Minnekota, Katherine Kaus, her husband, Rick, and her daughter, Kailey, have since relocated to another state in order to refocus on the marriage and the family.
Brian Deevers wrote a letter of apology to the community and remains the principal of MLA High School.
Because of Gabriel Johnson’s activism, the offending pop machine has been removed from the high school cafeteria. A tenth of a percent increase in county property taxes will be on the ballot in the fall. The increase is intended to fund summer marching camp, a dance team, and, most importantly, a healthy breakfast program for all school-aged members of the district. According to a poll published in MLJournal.com, the increase has support from 77 percent of likely voters.
Note:
When Gabriel said during his follow-up interview that he was experiencing fifteen minutes of fame, he was correct. The Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders story faded quickly. I doubt very much that he’s bothered by this fact.
The last time I saw Gabriel, walking the Lakeshore Path during Minnekota’s July Water Sports Festival, he looked healthy and content. He wore shorts. He held hands with a very tall girl in all black. He smiled at me, nodded, and then strolled away into the fading light.
I thought, We did good work.
—Henry P. Rodriguez, Attorney at Law
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks so much to my fantastic agent, Jim McCarthy. He’s guided me through so many projects now. One day, we’ll be old, Jim. This book couldn’t have happened without the guidance of Leah Hultenschmidt (I miss you!) and Todd Stocke. I’m so thankful to all the support and encouragement I receive from so many great people at Sourcebooks. On the home front, Stephanie Wilbur Ash is the best to hang with. I’m so lucky. She fires my imagination and makes me cry laughing. Leo, Mira, Christian, and Charlie, you are smart and hilarious and a source of unending inspiration. Speaking of inspiration, thank you to the kids of the Hillsboro School District, Hillsboro, Wisconsin, for the great messages of support you sent during the writing of this book. (Hillsboro is excellent and hilly.) Finally, thank you to the students and faculty of Minnesota State University, Mankato. I so appreciate your curiosity, energy, and kindness.
Like Gabe Johnson?
Meet Felton Reinstein.
Don’t miss the summer he went from joke to jock in
Geoff Herbach’s
STUPID FAST
Chapter 1:
Now
This could be a dark tale!
It’s not.
I don’t think so.
Maybe.
I can’t sleep. It’s 1:03 a.m. Almost September. The weather is warm, even though it’s football season. There’s this huge moon in the sky, but I can’t see it from the basement, where my bedroom is. I saw it plenty.
Tonight.
Dark tale? My dad did commit suicide.
Not so dark? I’m me. I hop up and down.
Where to start?
Not in the ’70s, when Jerri was a little girl. Not ten years ago, when I was five and found Dad dead in the garage. How about last November?
I should really be exhausted. But I’m not.
I, Felton Reinstein, stand on my bed because I can’t sleep.
Go.
Chapter 2:
My Body Grew Hair
I am not stupid funny. I am stupid fast.
My last name is Reinstein, which is not a fast name. But last November, while I was a sophomore, my voice finally dropped, and I grew all this hair on my legs (and other places) and then I got stupid fast. I’m serious.
Before my voice dropped in the fall, when my class was outside for gym, I played flag football and felt like trying for some reason. I was pretty good because even though I hadn’t yet fully gone through puberty like all the chuckleheads in my grade, and never tried before and wasn’t even interested in the slightest, I’ve always been good at sports (a fact I hid by not trying) but not ridiculously good.
Then Thanksgiving came, and I couldn’t stop eating and I couldn’t wake up before like noon, which drove Jerri nuts, and I grew taller and got all this crazy hair.
The hair was like corn coming up in June. You look one day and there are sprouts in the dirt, but mostly, you see dirt, and then like a week later, those sprouts aren’t sprouts but corn and are already knee-high and you can’t see the dirt at all.
I ate too much at Thanksgiving, about a thousand pounds, and I couldn’t wake up in the morning, and I sprouted hair. A week later, I had a thousand pounds of hair everywhere.
Then because my voice dropped, I got moved to baritone for the Christmas concert, which was bad news because I didn’t know the parts at all, so I sang the tenor parts except an octave below, which you could totally hear.
And it went on. I kept sleeping and eating, and Jerri yelled at me to get out of bed, and I yelled at Andrew to stop playing the piano so I could sleep. So Jerri yelled at me for yelling at Andrew and I’d get pissed and get out of bed and go to the refrigerator and stuff bread in my mouth because I was so hungry. Then Jerri would yell at me for eating too fast, and Andrew would shout “Felton’s a pig!” and on and on all winter—my pants getting too short and my shirts looking shrunken, not covering my belly button, which is gross (Jess Withrow and Abby Sauter told me it was gross), and Jerri and Andrew shouting at me and me shouting back.
Jerri never yelled before November.
And then in the spring, my gym class had to go outside to run the 600 yard dash for some physical fitness test thing (apparently the last one we ever have to do), and I was just mad, all wound up from all the yelling and my clothes not fitting right, and when Coach Knautz, the gym teacher, yelled go, I took off. I ran like an angry donkey, a very fast one, even though I didn’t care about winning. I just needed a release. I sprinted all 600 yards. And I beat everybody, even the other fast kids, by about 150 yards. People were screaming, “Look at Rein Stone go!” Peter Yang, my second best friend, whispered, “What happened to you?”
“Hee-haw!” I shouted and pumped my fist.
Peter Yang rolled his eyeballs and walked away.
• • •
Jerri—who happens to be my mom but also a big hippy who doesn’t like hierarchy, so she’s always had me and Andrew call her by her first name—was all puffy and weird during dinner that night. She was a crossing guard at the middle school at the time. The middle school is right next to the high school but lets out a little earlier so the high school kids don’t scare and beat the pee out of the middle school kids. She was out there on the corner when I ran the 600. She saw it. I could hear her screaming from the corner. “Run, Felton! Go! Oh my God!”
“Felton,” she said, serving me and Andrew whole grain, organic macaroni and cheese, “Listen. You need to do something about that speed of yours.”
“Oh,” I said, digging in.
“Are you
listening to me? Really, Felton. That speed is a gift…from the Universe…and I know you need to be who…need to be who…” She sat down at the table and stared up at the ceiling.
“Who, Jerri?” I asked.
“I heard you’re fast, Felton,” Andrew nodded at me.
“I’m eating macaroni here,” I said. “Mind your own business.”
“You’re super fast, Felton Reinstein,” Jerri nodded. She spoke really quietly. “It’s like you’re Jamaican instead of…the son of a small, sad Jewish dude.”
She was referring to me and Andrew’s father, who was already long dead but was in life—so we were to believe—not built for speed.
I thought for a moment before sticking more macaroni in my face.
“Were you fast, Jerri?”
“No. Not fast. I played guitar and read poetry. You’ve got a gift from the…from your…from the Universe, Felton.”
“I’m not fast either,” said Andrew. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to be. Athletic prowess is a curse, I think.”
“What the hell do you know?” I glared at him. He stared back at me through his big, plastic nerd glasses. “You’re a punk middle schooler.”
“It’s just the way I feel,” he said.
“No, Andrew. Wrong,” Jerri said.
“I simply think sports are bad for a young man,” Andrew said.
“No, goddamn it,” Jerri said all hot and red-faced, “We…We have to support…what the Universe provides. Do you understand me?”
“You shouldn’t swear, Jerri,” Andrew said.
“Just shut up, Andrew,” Jerri said.
“Don’t say shut up,” Andrew shouted back.
“I’m sorry,” Jerri said, looking down.
“Dad wasn’t a Jamaican Jew, was he?” I asked.
“No,” Jerri frowned. “Your father was a sweet, fat American Jew.” Then she stood up from the table, walked to the sink, and dropped her bowl of whole grain, organic macaroni into it. I didn’t even see her take a bite.
Gabe Johnson Takes Over Page 18