I'm with Stupid by Geoff Herbach

Author:Geoff Herbach [Herbach, Geoff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2013-04-03T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Drunken Abby and a Plan

I did notice when I ran to the road and barfed that February had gotten more February-like. Didn’t think to dress more warmly. I left too fast to think.

I biked to Abby’s freezing my ass off, the wind cutting through the light jacket I’d worn the day before. (It smelled like Cal’s cigarettes from the barn.) I shivered. My teeth chattered. I groaned.

In sixth grade, Abby had moved from my neighborhood by the golf course to a brand-new giant house on the west edge of town (with big, fake-looking pillars). Terry wanted to show off, I guess. He showed Bluffton how much he made straightening out all the kids’ ugly teeth. It was a three-mile ride through freezing.

I breathed hard. I felt tired in my legs. My muscles burned. When I’m myself, it takes forever for me to get tired.

At least I didn’t puke again.

I rolled up Abby’s big drive, panting, gulping for air. I dropped my bike on the ground and bent over, trying to catch my breath (my breath rising in clouds around me).

Nolan answered the door when I rang the bell. Even though he’s just a freshman, he’s a pretty big kid. He’s a jock, of course, just like his sister.

He glared at me. He said, “What do you want?”

“Abby.”

“Take her,” he said. He left the door open but walked away into the house. I didn’t hear him call for Abby or anything.

I stood for a while longer (I imagined throwing Nolan off a bridge), then rang the bell again.

A few seconds later, Abby showed up in a robe with a towel around her head. She was just showered and I could smell all that soap and lotion and my heart beat funny. “Hey, Rein Stone,” she said.

I followed Abby through the house. I hadn’t spent any time inside it since the Sauter divorce. Before the divorce, Abby’s mom cleaned constantly, like a jumpy rabbit. Terry would show up on occasion and crack jokes and call Abby “Princess” and crap (which she clearly liked). Even while me and my friends were there, eating pizza or whatever, Abby’s mom was bustling around us, picking up napkins, wiping pop drips off the counter. Sort of sad and annoying.

The house in February? Messy. Empty feeling. Trashed. There were dishes on the coffee table and side table and winter coats lay piled on the floor. A vacuum sat plugged into the wall on the side of the living room. Looked like it had been sitting there for a long time because there were tortilla chip crumbs on the floor right in front of it (next to a bowl of half-eaten chips).

Piles of dirty clothes lined the hall heading to Abby’s room.

“Wow,” I said.

“I should be cleaning. I can’t do it,” Abby whispered. “I have to wash my own clothes, but I don’t touch anything else.”

“Where’s your mom?” I asked.

“She’s shut in her room. She’s shut in there all the time,” Abby said.

“Sounds familiar.” Jerri had done pretty much the same exact thing a couple of years earlier.

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