Here we are, chapter seven! There's like two people reading this story, but whatever.
Review Response:
Graciela: Woohoo, you're the second person to review this! Yes, it is very wordy. Davey talks a lot, and I like to use big words. I'm glad you're enjoying it.
Chapter 7- Race
Wednesday, September 15, 1999, 10:00 a.m.
Racetrack Higgins had no self-control. This was a fact Race had come to accept very early in life. And yet he still found himself questioning his decisions, wondering to himself, Why? Why do you do this?
Like this morning. Race should have known better than to take the hot drink Jojo offered him. Caffeine and ADHD did not mix. But free coffee was free coffee. And it had smelled so good. The final shoe had dropped when Albert had taken two cups and chugged them on the spot. Not wanting to look like a wimp in front of his best friend, Race had accepted Jojo's offering. Totally worth it, Race had thought at the time.
That had been before the school day started. Before Race got repeatedly yelled at in first period, before he was given a detention in second period, all because he couldn't stay awake. Yes, it was a measly two cups of coffee, but add that to less than four hours of sleep, plus the hyperactive mess that was Anthony Edward Higgins, and you got Race's current state.
He was in third period now, Government class, tapping his feet against the floor in the hopes that he could trick his brain into believing he was standing up and walking; trying to cheat the system and keep himself awake. It wasn't working. His mind could not be fooled. He kept drifting off as his thoughts wandered, barely comprehending a word the teacher was saying. After almost dozing off five times, he had spent a good chunk of the first half of class trying to get Finch's attention. Race knew the other boy would be more than happy to aid him in his staying awake mission. That boy loved nothing more than to flick rubber bands across the room at people, particularly his friends. Namely, Race. At least, he would have loved nothing more than annoying Race under normal circumstances.
But today, Finch was staring at Sniper. He had recently come down with a case of what Race liked to call Oblivious Idiot Syndrome, otherwise known as OIS. This happened when a boy with a female best friend came to realize that his best friend was, in fact, female, and as a result became attracted to her. OIS usually occurred when a girl who never wore dresses suddenly wore a dress (see: a variety of teen romance films), or when a girl with short hair (like Sniper) decided to grow that hair out. Once Sniper had begun to look less like a taller version of her father and more like a girl with long hair, Finch had become a lovesick mess. Or something. Not that Race would know anything about lovesick messes.
At the moment, Finch looked like a kid who was trying to test if he had laser eyes because of how intently he was staring at Sniper. For the moment, Finch could do nothing but stare, as she sat across the room and couldn't easily be spoken to without attracting the teacher's attention. Race desperately wanted to tell the guy to look at a different spot in the room. The staring was getting creepy. If Sniper had noticed, she probably would have thrown something at Finch. And that girl never missed her targets. Luckily, she was being as oblivious as Finch had been before she'd grown out her hair. Sniper's phone was out under the desk, her fingers typing away as she grinned at the screen. Race envied her for getting away with that and simultaneously wondered who she was talking to. Obviously, it was not Finch. Sniper wasn't closely acquainted with anyone else, except...
Race shook his head, having felt himself beginning to drift off. What had he just been thinking? He couldn't remember, but he was sure it had been clever. Like he was on the verge of a discovery of some sort. Stupid racetrack mind. Race looked around. Oh, right. Finch and Sniper. The oblivious pair. As Sniper continued to smile at her lap, Finch finally looked away, apparently realizing the staring was a lost cause. Maybe now he would help Race out. Race considered whispering his friend's name, but quickly decided that was a bad idea, making a sensible decision for once in a blue moon.
So how could he get Finch's attention? Well, if Sniper could get away with texting in class, who was to say Race couldn't do the same? As the teacher droned on, going over the same rules required by the school every year before, Race slumped in his chair, reaching down to his schoolbag on the floor. With one hand, he pushed open the flap that covered the single pocket and fished around until his fingers closed around his cracked cell phone. He lifted it up and returned his body to an upright position, but before he could flip the phone open, the teacher yelled, "Anthony!"
As it turned out, sneaking one's phone while one's teacher was covering the school's cell phone policy was also a bad idea. "This right here is a prime example of what not to do," the teacher announced to everyone while she confiscated the phone, because why not publicly humiliate Race? This day just got better and better.
While the woman went on a rant about "kids these days and their technology", Race laid his head in his arms, deciding he would go ahead and sleep through the rest of the class. His already disgruntled teacher did not like that. "Anthony!" she yelled immediately, like some kind of siren triggered only by Race's actions. "Do you want me to give you a detention?"
"No."
"Then I would advise you to refrain from sleeping and checking your phone during my class."
Race glanced around the room, mentally counting five half-asleep people and three concealed phones, one of which belonged to Sniper. "Like I'm the only one who's ever done eitha' a' those things."
The teacher placed her hands on her hips. "I don't see anyone else following your example."
You ain't lookin' very hard. "Well, I..." Race stopped. He could have called out every person committing the same crimes, starting with Sniper. He could have made others suffer with him. But he wasn't going to. He never did, because he wasn't that kind of person. Because he was used to being the one in trouble, the person other people (mainly adults) saw as an outlet for their frustrations. It had always been this way, for as long as Race could remember, inaccurate memory aside. The only person who might understand the feeling of being a scapegoat was Jack, as he was treated similarly, but Race had never mentioned his feelings on the subject. No one would care if he did, not even Jack.
"I don't see anyone else," Race completed his sentence in a resigned tone that no one picked up on. "Prob'ly 'cause no one else is dumb enough ta follow my example. 'Cept maybe Albert." That last bit earned him a few laughs from the people who knew who Albert was.
The teacher sighed. "Yes, of course." She returned to her lecture, leaving Race to stare intently at the clock, attempting to use his potential laser eyes to speed up time and make the period end. That wasn't how laser eyes worked.
Anyway. Ten minutes remained. How to waste them? Trying not to fall asleep was still objective number one, though Race could feel the effects of the caffeine slowly fading. School rules presented in monotone inhibited Race from accomplishing this easily, but he told himself that he could stay awake for ten more minutes. All he had to do was stop his mind from wandering...
Brrring! Race shot up to a standing position so fast his knees collided with the bottom of the tiny desk. Great. Now he was awake. Indescribable pain had a tendency to do that to a person.
The teacher placed a detention slip in Race's hand as he made to leave the room. "That's for tomorrow. It appears you don't have room for another one today."
Some of the other students laughed. He ignored them, walking out of the classroom as rapidly as possible. Knees still throbbing from the collision with the desk, he weaved his way between groups of students, catching random snippets of conversation here and there. Race walked until the hallway widened and larger spaces formed between him and the people walking ahead of him. He jogged the rest of the way, skidding to a stop before he could collide with the crowd gathered in front of the locked door to the newspaper offices.
"Race!" Albert greeted, the stolen cigarette from earlier stuck between his teeth. Race frowned. He'd been hoping to get that back. "Ya look like hell. Got a case a' da Mondays?"
Race rolled his eyes. "It's Wednesday."
"Is anyone really keepin' track?" One of the twins- either Mike or Ike, Race could never remember- asked. "Isn't time an illusion or somethin'?"
"Isn't it a bit too early ta be considerin' that?" Albert asked.
"Not if time is an illusion," answered Ike, unless it was Mike. In any case it was the other twin.
"I haven't missed this." Race told them both. The twins watched him, waiting for the daily guessing game. He called the first twin Ike and the second one Mike, which turned out to be correct.
"You not bein' able to tell us apart?" wondered Mike. "Yeah, me neither."
"Well, you guys don' help me any by always dressin' so similar."
"We know," grinned Ike. "Why else would we do it?"
"I can't tell them apart either," admitted Elmer, who had decided to insert himself into the conversation.
"Course ya can't," said Albert. "You's an idiot."
"I know you are, but what am I?"
Mike, Ike, Race, and Henry oohed in unison. "That wasn't clever, don't pretend it was!" Albert cried.
"Ha!" Elmer yelled, considering himself victorious. A second later, he was pushed into the other boys as Morris Delancey shoved him aside.
"Move it, Switzerland," Oscar ordered after the fact as the two brothers pushed through the crowd.
"Poland," Henry corrected on Elmer's behalf.
Race wrinkled his nose as the Delanceys walked by him. "Ugh, what is that unpleasant aroma?" He raised his voice, making sure his next comment was heard by everyone. "The sewers must a' backed up durin' the night."
Closest to the doors stood Crutchie and Jack, who exchanged a look as the Delanceys walked up to them. Crutchie wiggled his eyebrows and prompted everyone to respond to what Race had said. "Or could it be..."
"The Delancey brothers!" Everyone else chorused as the older boys shot Crutchie identical menacing glares. Several members of the group laughed at the annoyed looks on the boys' faces, but Crutchie's laugh was particularly noticeable.
"Think yer funny, do ya?" Morris shoved Crutchie to the ground, then proceeded to kick him. "Ya lousy crip."
Jack stepped forward immediately. "Real mature a' youse, pickin' on da new kid," he approached Morris with a glare. "Though I guess ya wouldn't know nothin' 'bout bein' mature, seein' as you's still here."
"Get 'im, Jack!" Race yelled. This shout was backed up by a couple other guys.
But instead of Jack initiating a fight with Morris, Oscar shoved Jack, jumping in front of his older brother like a guard dog. "Ya ain't any smarter, Cowboy."
"Aw, Morris, you's got a lil' bodyguard," Jack taunted.
"I take care a' the guy who takes care a' me."
"Really? An' ya call me the dumb one."
"What's that s'posed ta mean?"
"Word on the street is, you an' that gang you's part of was takin' money ta crack heads all summer."
"So? It's honest work."
"Yeah, beatin' up the homeless is real honest." This came from Specs.
Morris grunted, "They's askin' for it by livin' on da streets."
"Don't your father live on the streets?" Race asked, not caring that he was provoking the older boy. "I thought youse took care a' the guy who takes care a' you."
"Least I has a father."
"Until ya crack 'is head open."
"Ya want us ta crack your head?" Oscar clenched his fists. Jack kicked him in the shins, and he yelped, a high-pitched "girly" sound that would have made everyone laugh if Morris hadn't growled at the crowd before they could.
"Jus' open the door, Oscar," Jack ordered, helping Crutchie up from where he'd been laying forgotten on the floor. While Oscar fiddled with the keys, Crutchie made the mistake of looking in Morris' general direction, somehow provoking the guy more than Jack and Race combined.
"Ya want some more, crip?" He shoved Crutchie into the wall.
"That ain't nice, Morris!" Jack yelled, coming to Crutchie's rescue for the second time in five minutes.
"Five ta one Jack skunks 'em!" Race crowed, "Who wants ta bet?"
Morris growled again, this time specifically at Race, while Jack continued lecturing the Delancey brothers. "One unfortunate day ya might find yerself wit a bum leg a' yer own. How'd ya like us pickin' on you?"
At the same time, Jack and Morris each grabbed one of Crutchie's crutches, which they used to have a sort of tiny sword fight. The battle ended as fast as it had begun when Jack whacked Morris' shins with the crutch. Morris stumbled back in pain.
"Wait'll I get my hands on ya," threatened Oscar, pulling open the double doors of the newspaper office.
Jack smirked, said, "Ya gotta catch me first," and motioned for Crutchie to jump on his back. Then he dashed into the office.
And everyone called Race the reckless one.
Race chapter! Let's gooooo!
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