Stupid Fast - By Geoff Herbach Page 0,2

go out for track,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. I squinted and thought, those locker room lights beating down on my head, Hmm. Am I going to say yes to this silliness? Hmmmm. I wouldn’t have said yes, but I had Jerri’s voice echoing in my head from the macaroni dinner (the Universe…the Universe…the Universe), and I thought about Andrew all arrogant and superior, even though he’s just a punk kid, and there was this poster hanging on the wall behind Coach Knautz (I was squinting at it) with this dude running in the desert with the word ACHIEVE underneath him, and I was emotionally moved by it, which is ridiculous, I know, but whatever. And, yes, I wanted Jerri to be proud of me. Andrew has his thing, his piano, which everyone loves him for. Jerri’s so proud of Andrew. Jerri has never seemed proud of me. I mean, man, what young son doesn’t want his mom to be proud of him even if he has to call her Jerri? (The Universe, Felton…the Universe…)

So I said, “Uh, okay, sounds good,” which caused Coach Knautz to punch his fist in the air, shout yes, and then try to high-five me.

***

So even though track season was half done by that time, and even though I had no intention before to do anything but eat and sleep and grow hair on my body and practice my completely lame and humorless standup routine (I’ll get to this later), and even though I’ve always thought that track is dumb because you just run like you’re a scared buffalo getting chased by hyenas on Animal Planet, I joined the team.

It was right to do so.

I was totally nervous about it. The juniors and seniors have always been jerks.

But seriously, I did pretty well.

In fact, right away, it became obvious, even though my last name is Reinstein and not something Jamaican like Bolt or Lightning or Nitro or Napalm, that I’m sincerely fast. Actually, it turned out that I am so fast that I made varsity in the 100 meters, which pissed off a couple of seniors, boohoo, but it wasn’t my fault. (Coach Knautz kept me off the relays for political reasons, he said.) It turned out I could already run almost as fast as that jerk Ken Johnson.

All the rest of the spring, a growing crowd of sweaty dudes who looked like Coach Knautz—balding, wearing those elastic coach shorts pulled halfway up their fat bellies because they’re also coaches, albeit football coaches—kept coming up to me, saying, “I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re what, fifteen?”

All the rest of the spring, Jerri kept yelling from her crossing guard position out on the corner or from the stands at other schools or from next to Andrew at big invitational meets, where I always placed a closer and closer second right behind Ken Johnson. “Run, Felton! Go!” (Even as she got freakier at home.) And all spring long, all the jocks in my grade, especially Cody Frederick, who I always thought smelled like an old urinal cake in a locker room (sorry), kept saying, “Can’t wait for football. You’re going out, right, Reinstein? We’re going to kick some ass in the fall.”

“I guess,” I’d tell them.

I did not enjoy the jock bus rides. I missed Gus, my first best friend, who sometimes sat on the hill watching track practice, shaking his head in disapproval. But I loved to run. Loved it.

Fast like donkey. Very fast. Zing!

***

But then at Regionals, the qualifier for the State meet, because I was filled with donkey adrenaline that made me shake, because I knew—seriously understood—that I’d gotten as fast as that jerk Ken Johnson and I had a good shot at beating him and making him feel like the jerk he is, I false-started twice—yes, two times—and was disqualified and then—oh, I’m not proud—I cried and blew chunks right there by the track. I did. Vomited. And then…drum roll…it was all over.

Ken Johnson whispered “Head case.”

A couple other seniors whispered “Squirrel Nuts,” for that was my nickname with the upper classes.

Coach Knautz said, “Another year of experience and that won’t happen to you, my boy.”

Gus showed up outside the locker room and said, “You should quit stupid track because it’s foolish and dumb,” because track made it so I didn’t have time to drive around with him and Peter Yang. He didn’t have to say that, by the way. Track was done for me for the year.

And Cody Frederick said, “We’ll kick