Salted (9781310785696)

by Galvin, Aaron

  “Yeah, so? I don’t see how—”

  Garrett smirked. “Know who else wanted to come over?”

  “Shut up!” Johnny leaned forward. “What’d she say?”

  “I dunno. It’s not like I talked to her. I told my mom I didn’t want any visitors.”

  Johnny choked on his gum. “You told her not to come over? That doesn’t make any sense! Why would you—”

  “Johnny…the last time she saw me was right before I almost died,” Garrett paused to let his point sink in. “And she’s had a whole day and night now to think on all the things she should’ve said, the dates we could’ve gone on….”

  Johnny’s eyes lit up. “That’s genius! She’ll be all over you!”

  Garrett’s ears sang with the tune of Johnny’s praises the remainder of their fifteen-minute journey to the high school. At one point, Johnny even wished aloud that he had almost been the one to drown so he could implement Garrett’s newest plan.

  It didn’t seem long to Garrett before Lester turned off State Road 23 and into the school parking lot. Garrett enviously watched others his age milling about next to their cars. “Dude, I gotta get a car.”

  “Fo sho,” Johnny said. “Hotties don’t take you seriously if you don’t have wheels.”

  Lester parked outside the freshman entrance and flung open the door. Unlike the younger students, he didn’t bark at the teens, though he did scowl at each of them from beneath his green tractor hat.

  “So last night I’m watching this show on TV, right?” Johnny raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Anyway, it’s about these kids around our age who go to school in Ohio. Except their school doesn’t look anything like ours. I mean it’s obvious they filmed in Hollyweird.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “All these movies and shows about high schools got it wrong, man! Look at our school, dude. Just look at it!” Johnny’s voice raised. “Does that look anything like a college camp—er—excuse me…high school…you’ve seen on TV? I mean, come on!”

  Garrett laughed at the point well made. Whatever architect had designed Tiber High clearly lacked imagination. The school looked like a giant brick box with windows and only a dingy pole barn for bus maintenance as a separate building. No landscaping had been done to distinguish the school grounds from a prison. Not to mention the cow pastures, hayfield, and graveyard that surrounded it.

  An old farming family owned the graveyard, or so the official story went. Allegedly, the family had refused to sell the land when the high school had been commissioned on account of not wishing to disturb or move the remains of those deceased. Garrett preferred a different story, one that suggested Ms. Morgan owned the graveyard. The one place she could harvest ingredients for her infamous perfume.

  The two friends entered through the freshman entrance. A poorly drawn poster of a tiger greeted them just inside the doors. The phrase Tiber Tigers are Rooooaaarsome! had been scrawled beneath it.

  “Look, Hickey, this is what the cheerleaders have been doing in their practice after school.” Garrett chuckled. No wonder Sydney quit.

  “Oh,” Johnny whined. “Why did we get stuck with lockers upstairs?”

  Garrett clapped him on the back and the two made their way up. An invisible wave silenced the normal hallway chatter when they reached the top.

  “Whoa,” Garrett said. “Guess nobody else expected me back so soon either.”

  “Looks like the P.J.s did,” Johnny said. “Check out your locker.”

  A grey, cut out piece of cardboard in the form of a gravestone had been duct-taped to Garrett’s locker with R.I.P. Weaver scrawled across the headstone in black.

  Both of his locker neighbors sported a picture of Kellen Winstel from last year’s state finals. Beside it, the word I-N-N-O-C-E-N-T had been spelled out down the locker doors in alternating orange and navy construction paper letters.

  “P.J.s…” Garrett said.

  Garrett assumed every high school had their collection of elitist preps and jocks. Tiber High’s version preferred to spend their time in front of Garrett’s locker. It seemed only natural for them to take up residence there, with Kellen Winstel as both their leader and Garrett’s locker neighbor.

  A typical day entailed Kellen’s girlfriend-of-the-day hanging on his arm and nibbling at his ear because a magazine named it one of the Top 10 Ways To Turn On Your Man. Meanwhile, the remainder of the pretty and the privileged talked up how awesome it was to be them.

  Today, Garrett noticed only two—Bryce Tardiff and Juan Marrero.

  “Johnny…” he whispered. “Where’s the other P.J.s?”

  “Suspended. Eddie Bennett and Ross Owens are gone for the semester. I heard Jun Gao’s only out for the week because he wasn’t near the pool when Kellen threw you in. It’s really because he ratted the others out though.”

  Garrett sniggered. “But what will they ever do without their Kelly for guidance?”

  Garrett swore Bryce heard him poking fun of his fallen leader and 4x100 relay teammate. Bryce nudged his companion, pointed at Garrett.

  Johnny abandoned Garrett and headed down the stairs.

  Wuss. Garrett continued onward.

  Marrero shoved off the lockers like he had been waiting on Garrett all morning. He stopped just shy of his nose touching Garrett’s. His breath reeked of tuna from his post-workout meal.

  Garrett tried to quell the fear rising in his gut. Not an easy task considering he stood toe-to-toe with the 3-peat, 185-pound state wrestling champion. It also didn’t help that Garrett managed the scoreboards at wrestling meets and knew Marrero preferred to make his opponents tap out rather than pin them.

  Garrett could feel the audience of peers holding their breath. In their faces he saw a pack of hyenas waiting for the pride of lions to make a sweeping kill.

  Show them you’re not afraid of these punks, a quiet voice inside him spoke.

  Garrett wished he knew where the voice came from so he could knock it into submission. His body pled with him to run and join Johnny in the handicapped bathroom stall his friend liked to hide in during just such occasions.

  “I uh…I need to get in my locker.”

  Marrero didn’t move.

  Show them, the voice said again.

  Garrett looked past the wrestler in front of him. “So you’re the new P.J. leader, huh, Tardiff? That didn’t take long. I wonder what Kelly would say about that?”

  “Finish what I started,” Bryce answered.

  “Hey!” A feminine teacher’s voice came from the end of the hallway. “What’s going on here?”

  Half a second later, Mr. Tuttle pushed his way through the crowd and shoved his coke-bottle glasses up the bridge of his nose with pudgy fingers. “Garrett, back from the dead I see! These boys giving you any trouble?”

  “Actually, Juan here was—”

  “Telling Weaver how glad we are he’s alive,” Bryce interrupted.

  “Uh huh,” Mr. Tuttle said. “Aaaaand that’s why you’re waiting outside his locker en masse?”

  Bryce shrugged. “Just waiting on him. See we have this field trip today, and well…” he placed his arm around Garrett’s shoulders. “We just wanted to make sure we saw Weaver before leaving to let him know we’re happy he’s okay. Right, Juan?”

  Garrett shook Bryce’s arm away. Glared at him just in case Mr. Tuttle fell for the lie.

  Juan muttered something and walked away.

  “Really glad you’re okay, man!” Bryce said, following Juan for the stairwell. “Hope we see you later!”

  He dropped the act as soon as Mr. Tuttle wasn’t looking. Sneering, he dragged his thumb across the front of his neck.

  “Okay, okay, show’s over people. Get to class,” said Mr. Tuttle. He took out a signature yellow handkerchief from his vest pocket and sneezed into it. “Best keep a weather eye out for them, Weaver. My nose always starts itching whenever I smell troub-a-ah-achooo!”

  Mr. Tuttle turned at the last so he didn’t sneeze on Garrett. Inste
ad, he covered the stripes of a passing senior’s Lady Tigers T-shirt in a thin layer of snot.

  The girl’s jaw hung open.

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Tuttle said. “Are you—”

  “Ew!” she sprinted for the bathrooms down the hallway.

  “As I said…” Mr. Tuttle said sheepishly. “Trouble!”

  Garrett waited until Mr. Tuttle couldn’t see, then ripped the gravestone off his locker and tossed it in the trash. The duct tape remnants left a sticky mess. Garrett opted to put them to good use. He slammed his door against the face of Kellen’s. The locker door came back with half of Kellen’s picture stuck to it.

  “Oops,” said Garrett, happily. Then he slammed it again.

  Satisfied with the second result, he turned back to his own locker. Paper footballs littered the bottom. Garrett grinned. He knelt and thumbed through them, opening each with tender care.

  Whoops! I missed you again, huh? Come talk to me when you get a chance!”

  ~Sydney~

  PS-History sucked today. There’s a pop quiz. And before you ask...NO! I won’t tell you what the questions are.

  Another read:

  Dear Garrett,

  I’m going to assume you haven’t found me yet because:

  A) You should be in choir, but instead you’re wandering the halls dreaming up new pranks. (BTW, I heard what you did with the mayonnaise packets! Gross!)

  B) You’re hiding in the bathrooms because you’re scared of facing my wrath, LOL.

  Or C) One of those P.J. jerks put you inside your locker again and you don’t want to tell me the combination to let you out.

  Come find me!

  ~Sydney~

  Garrett reached for the blue, plastic art box he kept hidden behind his books. The latch popped open easily, bursting with the mass of notes already inside. He heard what sounded like a balloon popping. Garrett looked down the hallway.

  Johnny slurped the lingering remains of his blue-raspberry chewing gum back into his mouth, and chomped it anew all the way to Garrett’s locker.

  “Thanks for bailing on me back there, Hickey,” Garrett said. “And why are you in such a good mood?”

  “What do you mean? How can you tell?”

  “Really? You can’t chew with your mouth closed on a good day and you chomp even louder when you’re happy.”

  “I dunno,” said Johnny. “Just happy you’re alive, brosef.”

  “Dude, I told you to stop saying that. Makes you sound like a wannabe P.J.”

  “Right, you’re totally right. I forgot they picked you to select potential members of their wannabe subsidiary.”

  Garrett tossed a couple more of Sydney’s notes into his blue art box. “Do you even know what that word means?”

  “Subsidiary? Not a clue,” Johnny said. “Heard it on a detective show last night. Sounds cool, right? I might give it a whirl on you-know-who!” Johnny popped a bubble.

  “Your funeral.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Garrett sighed. “Sydney will know what subsidiary means. You’ll look like an idiot.”

  “Oh, like your plan is so much better. She’s going to care that you didn’t die for like two seconds and then everything will be normal again.”

  What if he’s right? I need a second plan.

  “Oh, hey, get this,” said Johnny. “So I’m watching this other show, a medical one, where the patient had some rare case like the one you have—”

  “It’s not rare, Hickey. A lot of people have vitiligo.”

  “Fine, whatever. This guy had a rare disease, disorder, whatever you want to call it. Anywho, the hot doctor wanted to give him this surgical procedure, right? Only Mc-Whatever-His-Name-Is said, ‘Whoa. You can’t do that because he has this new disease on top of his other, original disorder—’”

  That’s genius. What if the doctors discovered something like that in me yesterday?

  “So then they move on to operate, right?” Johnny continued. “But some new doctor was like…’Hey, you can’t do that because his blood type—’”

  Could chlorine have entered my bloodstream? And it needs to have enough syllables to sound legit…Chlorinitis…no that’s too easy…Chloridrone…ooh that’s good. That might work. What about using two words?

  Johnny leaned against Garrett’s locker. “But then the doctors were like, ‘Uh, yes we can, or this dude’s gonna die!’”

  Die? Heck yeah! They always die on TV when the doctors use more than one word to tell the patient their problem. How about chlorakitis…or something with drowning maybe? Drownemy…dronemetia…ooh, yeah I like that.

  “Oh, hey,” said Johnny, digging into his pockets. He took out a folded paper football. “Syd gave this to me yesterday in case I saw you. Figured you might wanna toss it in with the rest of your uh…” Johnny snorted and motioned toward Garrett’s art box. “Hope chest.”

  Johnny handed the note over.

  Garrett saw chocolate smudges stained the edges. Of course he read it. Garret shook his head as he took the note and unfolded it.

  Garrett Weaver!

  I heard what happened yesterday and don’t think because you survived means you get out of explaining what you were thinking!

  “Geesh, what is she, my mom?” Garrett asked.

  “Maybe you should let her ground you,” Johnny suggested with a dopey grin.

  You had to pick a fight with them! SERIOUSLY?!?! You are in DEEP TROUBLE!! Don’t think you’ll slip by me tomorrow. I will find you!

  ~Sydney~

  P.S. I’M GLAD YOU’RE OKAY!!!!

  “I see you got my note,” said a familiar girl’s voice.

  Johnny choked on his gum.

  Relax, Weaves. Garrett didn’t turn around. He tossed the open letter into his locker and casually pushed the art box back into hiding.

  “You toss all my letters away?”

  “Listen, babe,” said Garrett. “I toss all my stalkers letters away like that.”

  The girl laughed. “You have a stalker?”

  “Stalkers…plural. I mean, sure it sounds cool and all. What guy doesn’t want stalkers, right? Except this one girl…well, she has a couple things playing against her. The main one being she’s Asian—”

  Garrett was shoved against his locker. “Ah!”

  He turned around.

  The girl behind him stood a shade over five feet tall, and her thin frame belied the strength she had used to push him.

  “You got a problem with Asians, Weaver?” Sydney Gao asked.

  Johnny answered before Garrett could. “I don’t have a problem with Asians, Syd. I love them!”

  Surprised he can even talk he’s chomping so hard. Garrett thought.

  “All kinds!” Johnny said. “Japanese, Cambodian, Korean, oh, but Chinese…Wow!”

  Garrett punched his shoulder. “Cut the crap, Hickey.”

  “What? I’m just telling Sydney that I think Chinese chicks, I-I mean, girls. No! Women…” Johnny winked. “They’re my favorite.”

  Sydney ignored him, her focus on Garrett that particular moment. But unlike the I-desperately-need-you-now look he had hoped for, Sydney gave him the I-will-kill-you look.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Geez, Syd, I was just kidding around.”

  She shook her head. “No, not that. What’s the other thing?”

  “The other…oh!” Garrett grinned. “I don’t date hot girls.”

  Sydney snorted. “You don’t, huh?”

  “Yeah because he’s gay!”

  “Ugh, Johnny!” Sydney slapped him. “Do you know how stupid that makes you sound? Because he’s gay...” She mocked. “I thought you were better than that.”

  “I am…I so am, Syd. You’re right.” Johnny hung his head. “I promise not to ever make fun of the gays again.”

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “Good. So, you two ready for the field trip?”

  Here it is! My moment!

  “I’m uh…I’m not going.” Garrett t
urned back to his locker. “I-I didn’t want to tell you guys this, but…I…look, I just can’t.”

  Johnny stopped chomping. “What is it, dude? You forget money to get in? Because I can loan you the dough.”

  “My mom can get you in free since she works there,” said Sydney.

  Garrett tried to will tears in his eyes. They refused to come. Come on, man! You need the tears or she won’t buy it!

  Sydney took a step closer to him. “Garrett, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, it’s—look, yesterday the doctor said that—” Garrett looked at his feet. “Well, she said that—”

  “What? What did they say?”

  Sydney’s light touch on his forearm sent electrical currents racing to his neck. He felt a tear forming then turned and looked into her grey eyes.

  “They said Kellen held me under too long and I had…they said I had some kind of weird reaction…” The tear rolled down his cheek. “It’s called chlorakitis dronemetia—”

  Sydney burst out laughing.

  Johnny dabbed at his eyes with his shirt collar. “Dude, what’s that mean? Chlora drone—”

  Sydney bent over, laughing even harder. “It means he’s full of crap!”

  “I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” Garrett said. “It’s a serious condition, Syd!”

  “Whatever.” She downgraded to a chuckle. “I wrote you a note yesterday about needing a good laugh. You can throw it away. That’s the best joke I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Syd, it’s a serious condition!”

  “Oh, okay!” she said, then gave him a wink. “I’m glad you’re back to normal, Weaver.”

  Johnny lurched forward and hugged Garrett before Sydney could say more. “We’re gonna get through this together, dude. I know I bailed on you before with the P.J.s, but—”

  “Thanks, Johnny,” Garrett said. At least someone would miss me.

  “Okay, you two. We’ve got a field trip to go on.” Sydney snorted again. “Last one on the bus has chlorakitis dronemetia.”

  Garrett watched her stumble away—laughing so hard she could barely stand—while he continued to console Johnny. He tried reminding himself that at least she found him funny. Besides, if he told Sydney the truth, if he had told her the first thing he saw after being pulled from the pool, she wouldn’t laugh.