Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,1

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.

Jerri was acting a little freaky. This might have been a sign to me, but I didn’t really pay attention because she was standard issue weird forever (big hippy sandals, organic turnip soup, drumming circles, making us call her Jerri). But freaky? Not really. Well, maybe a little. Sometimes. Off and on.

***

Jerri wasn’t the only one acting weird. Coach Knautz pulled me out of biology the next day. He knocked on Mr. Willard’s door, pointed at me while the whole class stared, and then said he had to have a word in private. Private? That’s a gross word. It reminds me of bathrooms and people’s privates all hanging out. Gross.

I was scared. I hadn’t gotten in trouble since eighth grade, when I took a bathroom stall apart with a screwdriver (totally grounded from TV and suspended for three days, which ended my life of crime and vandalism), and I couldn’t imagine why a coach would pull me out of class. He walked me down the hall without saying a word. He took me into the gym offices in total silence. He sat me down across the desk from him and then stared at me and shook his head and breathed through his big nose.

“Yes…uh…sir?” I asked.

“Listen, Reinstein, I have never seen anything like it.” (Nose breath.)

“Like what?” I said meekly. I was completely shaking in my shoes because I thought I must’ve done something horribly terrible.

“I have never seen a kid run so damn fast in the fitness test,” he said.

“Ohhhhh,” I breathed easier. “Yeah. Jerri is pretty excited.”

“Who?”

“My mom.”

“Right. Jerri. And she’s right to be excited, Reinstein. I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and I have never seen anything like it. Ken Johnson wasn’t even close to as fast as you, and he took two firsts at State last year.”

“I know,” I said, without any enthusiasm, I might add. Why? Ken Johnson has always been a jerk. The summer after eighth grade, Ken Johnson shoved me off my Schwinn Varsity, which he called a stupid bike because he said my brake lever scratched his car, which maybe it did, but only because he parked like a jerk so I couldn’t get my bike past him. Ken Johnson.

“I’m guessing you’re a sprinter,” Coach Knautz nodded, “just by the way you run. I’m guessing you’re really built for 100 meters or maybe 200.”

“Maybe,” I said, still not knowing what he was getting at.

Mr. Knautz’s eyes were watery. He nodded more. He was sweaty.

“You have to do something with your God-given speed. You have to