Funding the Fun: Trying to Get to France

Chapter One: The Asswax Candle

To the untrained ear, the music blaring from the Wilkinson’s stereo sounded like a pack of drunken, poetic hyenas at an open mic night. And to my ear, it sounded even worse. It’s not like I’d never heard bad music-my nearly three years in high school had insured it-but I wasn’t accustomed to this new form of awful. It’s like when you’re a kid and you’ve just gotten used to seeing your normal, brown shit in the toilet, and then one day you eat that cereal with the funky colors, and you look down and your shit is funky colors too. Ironically, that was the name of the song. “Funky-Colored Shit”
         “Who’s the musical genius behind this masterpiece, again?” I asked Cody. He was ten years old, with an ego the size of Alaska, and most sarcasm went right over his head.
         Last time I checked, he understood English though. In response to my question, he was staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking stunned, stoned, or both.
         “…Did you just say…’masturbate’?” He asked finally. I could have died laughing. But I maintained self-control.
         “No.” I replied shortly. “I asked who sings this song.”
         “Oh.” He said, looking thoroughly disappointed. “It’s by The Asswax Candle. He’s the best rapper ever.”
         The Asswax Candle sounded as if his voice was just squeaking its way into puberty. But judging by his romantic lyrics (“I met her in the grocery line/I never did see an ass so fine”) he had already been in his fair share of serious relationships.
         “Andrew, what’s masturbation?” Cody asked with sincere innocence. My brain was exploding. There was no way I was going to answer that question. Until now, I figured he knew all there was to know. Public education is a marvelous thing, particularly the social aspects. A kid could learn a lot, or at least act like he knows it all.
         “It used to be an Olympic sport,” I hastily invented. “But they got rid of it, because it was too violent.”
         “Oh,” said Cody, looking even more let down than before. I almost felt bad for crushing the poor kid’s hopes. “Then Jamie Baker’s a fucking liar!”
         If you’ve never heard a three-foot tall ten year old drop the F-bomb about one of his classmates, you’re definitely missing out. And I thought babysitting would be boring…

         The Wilkinson parents arrived home about three hours after the masturbation conversation (hey maybe I could be a rapper too!) This was probably one of the most disturbing babysitting experiences I’ve had yet, but hey it’s just the first week. And the Wilkinsons have cash. As I walked back home in the summer twilight, I counted all of it precisely. One hundred dollars is more than enough motivation to keep tolerating Cody and the Asswax Candle. As Scott would say…
         “Gotta fund the fun! Haha!” Scott exclaimed, leaping joyfully out of an evergreen tree next to my driveway.
         “Holy shit Scott, you scared the hell out of me.”
         Scott chuckled proudly to himself, and shook my hand. Had I not been his friend for years, this would have seemed rather odd, but I learned the hard way time and time again, that odd is the status quo, with some people.
         “Congratulations, monsieur.” He said, in a mock-serious voice. “With that chunk of change, we’ll be in France in no time! Anarchy in the F.R! Haha!”
         I just stood there, dumbfounded. I was tired and in no mood for this right now. The silence didn’t seem to register with him though. It never did.
         “Chunk of change,” he mused thoughtfully, “doesn’t that sound like a fantastic campaign slogan? Like for a reform president?”
         “Sure,” I said resignedly. That was all Scott wanted to hear.
         “Alright mon frere, je vais aller au chez moi. A bientot!”
         “Ciao for now.” I replied with a tired grin. Foreign languages are so cool. And trips to foreign countries have got to be even cooler.
         France. French II was officially over, which meant I was now officially allowed to accompany Madame Fauteuil and the rest of the upperclassmen on the trip this year. Spring Break. At the conclusion of 10th grade, it seemed like a light-year away, but now, as junior year crept closer and closer, it suddenly became less of a dream and more of a reality.
         More of a reality that I had no money to “fund the fun” as Scott liked to put it. He could fund the fun quite easily, with his steady job as an ice cream vendor aside his uncle Jimmy. I had no Uncle Jimmy, and I had no job. The Wilkinsons were okay, after all they were generous as hell and filthy rich, and each time, it got more and more interesting to observe Cody.
         It was kind of strange, on my part, but spending time with Cody really was like a huge science experiment. Sociology and psychology probably played a part as well. He was ten years old, just young enough to still need a babysitter, but old enough to be curious about sex. Or at least to feel the effects of peer pressure. He wasn’t a teenager, that was obvious. But he wasn’t really a kid either.
         I had been thinking and walking simultaneously, an impressive achievement in the rural hills of Little Greendale, and the sight of my front door snapped me out of my jumbled wonderings. I turned the knob, and entered slowly. The Wilkinsons liked to have grand nights out, probably spending millions on expensive champagne and gigantic lobsters, so I often left their house around 11 or later.
         I checked the clock, it was midnight. The rest of the family had gone to bed, not surprising, since mom just got home five minutes ago from her all-day shift at Rite Aid, and dad was trying to discipline himself by going to bed earlier, as opposed to quitting drinking. And six-year-old Mariah wasn’t an insomniac either. Maybe a need for sleep runs in the family. Everyone always talks about staying out all night, or watching movies til 4 am at a sleepover, but being awake at midnight was definitely enough for me. How lame, I thought, crawling into bed. You call yourself a teenager? You act like a middle-aged fat man. I ignored myself and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Two: Scott Mange Trop du Fromage


         I woke up on the floor, and it was hard and cold. I’ve never fallen out of bed before, and it wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had. Better than an alarm clock, though. I sighed as I glanced at it, perched up on the nightstand, snoozing like a dormant volcano. It was the loudest alarm clock ever, probably even louder than the Wilkinson’s horrible stereo. And this was the last day of my blissful vacation from it-The last day of summer break.
         “Bonjour!” Greeted Scott, as I came into the kitchen. He was always the most awake person in the room, and this morning was no exception. My mom and sister were still in bed, and my dad abandoned his coffee to give Scott a ferociously dirty look, complete with bleary-eyed hangover face. Scott didn’t notice.
         “Are you ready for soccer practice today?” He asked bouncily, helping himself to a muffin.
         I had entirely forgotten.
         “Shit, that does start today, doesn’t it?”
         “Yep!” He replied, hopping a little from foot to foot. In different circumstances, I would have joined in, but I had just emerged from the dark depths of slumber, and soccer practice seemed like a death sentence at the moment.
         “I’m not going.” I said, even though in the back of my mind I knew that wasn’t true.
         “Ridiculous!” He crowed. “You never miss anything, and I’ll be damned if you’re missing the first practice of the season. Have some milk, it’ll wake you up!”
         I reached out to take the glass of milk Scott was offering me, but instinctively withdrew my hand when I heard the explosion…
         “YOU FUCKING KIDS GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I GOTTA HANGOVER AND I’M GOING TO WORK, AND STOP YOUR GODDAMN SWEARING!”
         That even rattled Scott a little, despite already being around my family for most of our lives. We looked at each other for half a second, and bolted out the door, still carrying the milk and muffins we had in our hands.
         We strolled down Arrow Avenue, (fancy name for a street with five houses on it, eh?) chowed down our suddenly breakfasts-to-go, and talked about soccer and other things. Now that I was awake, the first practice of the season was something to get psyched about, like Scott.
         “I can’t wait to meet all the new guys.” I said, excitedly. “I mean, we talked to them at the meeting last year, but that’s all bullshit, just motivational speeches and whatever.”
         “Yeah,” agreed Scott, nodding. “That fat kid’s gonna have a hard time sprinting, haha.” He chuckled lightheartedly at the poor kid’s misery. We did have to run a whole lot.
         “It’s not like you’re exactly anorexic.” I grinned, slapping Scott’s belly.
         “Really?” He asked, patting his stomach self-consciously. The guy doesn’t give a fuck about jumping out of his neighbor’s pine tree at midnight, but this he cares about.
         “Yeah, you’re a whale.” I continued relentlessly, laughing at his nervous expression. He wasn’t overweight at all; he was probably in better physical shape than I was.
         “I want to be not fat, so that Julie won’t think I’m fat.” He explained, entirely straightforward.
         Julie was the object of Scott’s burning desire, or at least his obnoxious flirting. She was rather pretty, blonde hair, but not in that “look at me, I’m blonde!!!” way. She was a trombonist of the marching band, and they had practice all summer, on the parking lot right next to the soccer field. It led to a multitude of horrendous “tromboner” jokes that I’m ashamed to admit I contributed to. Not that ashamed, though.
         “Julie won’t think you’re fat.” I said, seriously. “After all, she only sees you while you’re running, being all athletic-like. You’ll be fine.”
         Scott seemed somewhat consoled by this, and I was slightly relieved. I never know what to say in situations like that.
         It was mid-morning by now, and we were in Greendale’s thriving metropolis, which consisted of a pizza place, a coffee shop, the Post Office, and the ever-so-enthralling Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering (it’s a church, not a torture chamber).
         “I wanna go to the grocery store!” Declared Scott.
         “Uhm…grocery store? Must I remind you once again of all the things Little Greendale is lacking?”
         “Well yeah,” He agreed, smiling, “but guess what? I finally got my drivers’ license!”
         “Awesome!” I bellowed. We had been waiting for one of our friends to get a drivers’ license for ages. Almost everyone we hung out with was over 16 by now, but we were all pretty lazy too.
         “Cool…” I drawled, grinning at the little Scott on his license.
         “Yeah,” Scott agreed, “and Marko finally bought the Hybrid car he wanted, so I get his old one!”
         Marko was Scott’s interesting older brother. He was in college now, and that was where he definitely belonged. Post-70’s hippies don’t really blend into modern day society, especially high school society. I never really talked much to Marko, but Marko talked a lot to everyone. Sitting through a half-hour of “why PETA is going to take over the world” would make anyone feel an overwhelming urge to leave it. And a craving for bacon.
         “Awesome!” I shouted, loud enough that the guy walking into the Post Office dropped his letters.
         “I know!” Scott shouted back! “Let’s go!”
         We sprinted all the way to Scott’s driveway, and saw the car. It was parked peacefully, brightening the yard in all of its rust-covered glory. Gazing in awe, mouths hanging open was about all we could do. Finally, a means of transportation. And it even had a CD player!
         “Whatare you gonna name it?” I asked Scott, eyes still fixed on the car.
         “Julie.” Scott replied firmly, his tone warning me not to crack a joke right then.
         Didn’t work: “Haha we get to take a ride in Julie!”
         Scott burst out laughing. “Hell yeah we do, but I’m driving!”
         We laughed and joyfully skipped over to the car, threw the doors open and jumped inside. Scott turned the key in the ignition, and I picked up a Bad Religion CD off the floor and put it in the player. For such an annoying guy, Marko had pretty sweet taste in music.
         “Hell yeah!” Scott whooped ten minutes later, as we were cruising down Route 73. “Ma voiture est tres magnifique!”
         We came to a sudden halt in the Fresh Market parking lot. Good thing the car still had seatbelts. Scott wasn’t exactly a perfect driver yet.
         “What are you so damn hungry for anyways?” I asked him curiously. I’d gotten so distracted by the thought of the car, that I had forgotten the actual reason for the field trip.
         “Cheese.” He replied with certainty. “Je veux manger beaucoup du fromage.”
         “Hmm…Moi aussi.” I replied. My stomach was rumbling a little at just the thought of the cheese. Cheese was about half the reason Scott had started taking French as a freshman, and I was pretty fond of it too.
         The cheese aisle radiated its succulent smell, partially of the cheese itself, and partially of the young, snobby connoisseurs of cheese; drenched in fancy perfume and textbooks entitled “The Art of Fine Cuisine.” Scott and I enjoyed their company, but couldn’t help but spoil the ambiance a little.
         “Fuck yeah, this cheese rules!” Declared Scott triumphantly, brandishing a wedge of camembert at me.
         “This cheese is way better!” I argued, picking up a wheel of Roquefort. In reality, camembert is far superior to Roquefort, but bickering about cheese is quite amusing, especially when it gets out of hand and the Cheese Snobs start to get nervous and fidget and give disapproving looks.
         “My ass it is!” Scott shot back, taking my cue. A nearby Snob glanced over at us, sneered, and went back to inspecting some mozzarella.
         We continued our cheese-fight until it threatened to turn into a wrestling match, and if we got kicked out again, we couldn’t come back. With $40 worth of cheese in our arms, we strode victoriously back to the car, tore the plastic wrap off, and started devouring our loot.
         “Dude, you better slow down.” I advised him, after I was done with just a few wedges. Scott was still going strong.
         “Aww cfomn Angdrewk, I’m thill hunjgry.” Protested Scott, the chewed-up gorgonzola protruding from his mouth.
         I decided not to attempt to convince him to stop eating. That was a pretty difficult thing to do, Scott loved his cheese, and he was as stubborn as that one drawer in your desk, which you just can’t open. So Scott just kept shoving cheese down his throat as we drove back to Little Greendale.


         Soccer practice started in the late afternoon, so I called the Wilkinsons and told them that I couldn’t babysit. Thank god they were okay with it. As the richest of the rich in the county, they could have probably called Couch Deagan and arranged for me to miss practice that day. But there was no way I’d miss the very first practice of the season.
         My dad wanted to drive me there. I told him that Scott could just as easily take me, since he was going to the same place, but my father insisted.
         “I wanna apologize for this morning.” He grunted, backing out of the garage.
         “It’s fine.” I said, wanting to not discuss it. The only thing worse than an awkward situation is talking about it later.
         “No it’s not.” He persisted, with actual emotion in his voice. Aside from anger, this was quite rare. “Tell ya what, I’ll treat ya to some ice cream before soccer, how bout that?”
         “It’s really ok.” I said, trying to be firm. “If I eat too much before soccer, I’ll get sick. We don’t need two guys throwing up all over the house.” Only the thought of excess puke besides his own seemed to convince him.
         Couch Deagan gave us all a motivation speech before we started sprinting back and forth, like in those Bugs Bunny cartoons where he tries desperately to play tennis with himself. I like those cartoons, and I like Deagan’s motivational speeches. Most of the team detested them though, found them overly cheesy. And speaking of cheese…
         “Dude,” whispered Scott in my ear. “I think I ate too much cheese. We haven’t even started running and I feel like shit.”
         “What am I supposed to do about it?” I answered, frazzled. Helping friends is great and all, but it’s not like I’m gonna just whip out some Pepto Bismol and Saltine crackers.
         “Tell Coach that I can’t play today.” He whispered back. Every season, Scott was begging me to be the middleman between himself and Coach Deagan. They hadn’t said one word to each other since the Matches Incident of ’04. Deagan’s daughter, Becky’s eyebrows still hadn’t grown back.
         “No!” I replied, trying to keep my voice down. If you interrupted Deagan’s speech, all hell broke loose. “Either tell him yourself or suck it up and play. What’s the worst that could happen?”
         Scott seemed to settle for the latter, as he still avoided Deagan like the plague. We started off slow, obviously to lure the new freshman into a false sense of security, but then we started the real stuff. My legs were throbbing and felt like blocks of sandstone, ready to crumble and surrender. Scott looked way worse though.
         “Your forehead looks like Niagara Falls.” I commented during a water break. “All it’s missing is the tiny little people sliding down in barrels.”
         Scott was too fatigued to even smile. He didn’t even seem to hear me.
         “Here comes Deagan.” He said slowly. He must have been tired, customarily he would have bolted in the opposite direction at the sight of Deagan approaching, but this time he stayed put, and just gulped down another swig of Gatorade.
         Oh no. Did Deagan just tap Scott on the shoulder? Yeah, he did.
         “Look Scott, we can’t have you running like that all over the field once the games start.” Coach Deagan told Scott in his usual brusque manner. “People are gonna think you’re retarded or something.”
         Scott didn’t say anything. He just looked at Deagan, eyes slightly glazed over, mouth twitching a little. There wasn’t anger behind his expression, only…
         BLEAAAACCHHSSQQEELLLCCHHH.
         Without even pausing to think or turning around, I knew what had happened. Scott had just thrown up $40 worth of Fresh Market’s finest cheese right on Coach Deagan’s brand new Nike’s. I never really disliked Deagan, but it was taking all of the aching muscles in my body to not spew Gatorade myself in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
         Scott didn’t have that kind of self-control. He was doubled over and could hardly breathe. When he finally got composed enough to speak, he blurted out what will probably go down in sports history as the worst possible thing to say at the worst possible time, ever.
         “Andrew, turn around and look at this! It’s yellow for God’s sake! I should have done this instead of the matches, it would have been fuckin’ epic!”



Chapter Three: Julie Meets Scott, Cody Meets Pam, My Own Love Life Remains Stagnant as Ever


         Scott got kicked off the soccer team, and he was pissed. Watching Scott be pissed is actually a pretty funny scene. He paces around a lot, occasionally stopping to kick stuff, continues pacing, talks of revenge, and swears, if possible, more than usual.
         “That motherfucker’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m gonna stay off the team!” He burst out, after silently pacing around his living room for about fifteen minutes. It had been two days since the Puke Incident, but he had just been informed of his unpleasant discharge…which ironically was a result of an unpleasant discharge.
         “There’s nothing you can do.” I said honestly. What could he do?
         “Fuck you, you’re wrong!” He snapped at me. Scott was my best friend and whatnot, but the guy’s got a nasty temper. I was patient with him, though.
         “Okay, then what are you going to do?” I asked him seriously, somewhat curious about his master plan of vengeance.
         “I’m going to mummify his house with TP, plaster it with eggs, sneak inside and hide all the food in the house AND hide his car keys.” Scott replied with fierce determination.
         “Haha, sounds pretty awesome.” I replied. “But don’t ask me to help you, ‘cause I still wanna be on the team.”
         “Pfft why?” Scoffed Scott. “Deagan’s a big asshole and I wouldn’t play on his team if you paid me.”
         “Yeah you would.” I laughed. “Gotta fund the fun. And I’d like to stay in shape.”
         “Hell no.” He said. “And I will definitely stay in shape. I joined the marching band.”
         I spat out my mouthful of Mountain Dew. The band? After all our years of making fun of all the band kids (Julie aside) he had gone and joined them?
         “What?”
         “Yep.” He said. “Marko used to play the trumpet, so he still has his old one.”
         “Joues-tu de la trompette?” I chuckled. “Tu es un band fag?”
         “Yep.” He replied with a grin, and stopped pacing. At least I managed to cheer him up…either me, or it was the idea of waddling around a parking lot toting a trumpet.


         In a couple of days, I was back at the Wilkinsons, accompanied by cute little Cody, who was currently lighting his mother’s antique dolls on fire, and checking himself in the mirror every few minutes to make sure his pants showed just the right amount of his boxers.
         “Do you want to listen to some Asswax Candle?” I asked lightly. He had been showing off his own freestyle rapping talents for the past few hours, and I was seriously getting sick of it. I’m not racist at all, but rap music is probably the best evidence the white supremacists have for their cause, fucked-up as it is.
         “No more Asswax Candle.” He grunted, eyes still fixed upon his sagging pants. “My girlfriend Pam hates it.”
         “You have a girlfriend?” I blurted out, not bothering to hide my surprise. This kid is miles away from puberty, and he’s got a girlfriend, while I’m 16 years old and I haven’t had one since freshman year.
         “Yeah, the bitch’s name’s Pam.” Cody said, not realizing this had already been established. “I met her in science class, she’s so hot!”
         Hearing this kind of dialogue from a ten year old was frightening enough, but the knowledge that I didn’t have a girlfriend while Cody did, made me absolutely want to kill myself.
         “Is she?” I asked, chuckling.
         “Hell yeah, dude! She has long blonde hair and green eyes and she has boobies!”
         Just like the Puke Incident, I found myself trying hard to not dissolve in fits of laughter. While hilarious, listening to Cody was kind of like watching a gruesome car accident. It was a hideous spectacle and you felt terrible for staring, but you just couldn’t avert your eyes. A car accident is a result of irresponsibility or alcohol, and Cody was a result of the shittiest shit on MTV.
         “So she must be pretty special huh? For you to give up the wonderful music of Asswax.”
         “No dawg, I still like The Asswax Candle. But Pam’s crashing at my crib in a few minutes so we can’t listen now.”
         “What? She’s coming here now?” I asked, starting to panic.
         “Yeah, Homie-Andrizzle, so don’t embarrass me aight?”
         As if he wouldn’t embarrass himself by pronouncing it “im-brass” Not to mention the ridiculous way he talks. Even miraculously well-endowed Pam would see right through him.
         It was too late to convince him to reschedule his play-date, because precisely at that moment, Pam was standing right outside, knocking on the door.
         “Yo, Pam my darling.” Cody greeted her, inviting her in. Could someone really refer to their beloved girlfriend as their “bitch” and their “darling” in the same day?
         “Hey, sweetie-pie.” She replied, smiling. Her face was like a splatter painting, caked with mounds of makeup, looking like a miniscule hooker.
         Cody and Pam spent a lovely evening together. They watched Pimp My Ride, Real World, and My Super Sweet Sixteen, and he managed to persuade her to play Mario Kart, even though she had been convinced that playing video games would make her majestic boobies shrink and eventually disappear.
         “We’re hungry, man!” Declared Cody, not taking his eyes off of the TV screen. I saw a fleeting image of the couple in 30 years, doing the exact same thing, just with 100 extra pounds, and a lot more hair.
         “Okay, okay.” I said, and retreated into the kitchen, keeping the door open in case they decided the right time for sex was in the next few minutes.
         I’ve never been the most successful chef in the world, but I’d like to think the chicken nuggets and pancakes I made were the most romantic chicken nuggets and pancakes that have ever been eaten. Except when almost all the food was gone, and they were done to just one pancake.
         The two hands met on top of it. It was like that card game where you have to violently slap your opponent’s hand in order to be the winner. Cody stared intently into his lover’s eyes, and she stared right back. It was the fight for women’s rights in one moment. She was Susan B. Anthony, and he was the oppressive, patriarchal society of 19th century America. I thought of being the responsible one and suggesting they simply break the pancake in half, but that was out of the question. You couldn’t just slice suffrage in half, and besides, I wanted to see what would happen.
         “My fuckin’ pancake!” Cried out Cody, and he wriggled it out from Pam’s grasp, and immediately shoved it down his gullet.
         Suffrage. Equality. It was all lost in the depths of Cody’s digestive system. Back in the old days, Pam would have probably allowed this to happen, but it was 2007, and Pam was pissed.
         “Fuck you and your goddamn pancake, you bastard! This is the end of our relationship, I’m through! Goodbye forever, Cody!”
         Pam stood up from the couch, walked briskly across the room to the front door, turned around, raised a tiny middle finger, and gracefully stormed out the door.
         Cody and I both stared at the door, and then I turned and looked at him. He was still staring into space, not moving a muscle. I was wondering if he was going to cry, but he definitely did not.
         “You know why I dated that bitch in the first place?” He asked me.
         “Why…?” I said slowly, not sure if I actually wanted to hear the answer.
         “Her name’s Pam!” He exclaimed, as if this were the obvious reason. “Just like Pamela Anderson!”
         And with that, he burst out laughing.


         A few nights later, Scott and I were at The Pizza Place with our friends, Jason, Tim, and Rebecca Who Hangs around with Us Even Though She Is a Girl. Or “Becky” for short.
         “This pizza is delightful!” Tim exclaimed, downing an entire slice in one gulp. “It’s exquisite! It’s delectably divine and I would love to do nothing but fill my body with the likes of its fantasticness forever!”
         Tim was rotund, to put it nicely, and a fucking fatass pig, to not. It was also rumored (for good reason) that he smokes pot even more often than he eats out of one, but this has never been proven. It does seem strange that someone who supposedly is stoned out of his mind 24/7 would possess such an impressive vocabulary, though.
         “Yeah, I concur, the pizza’s pretty swell.” Agreed Becky.
         “Swell?” Asked Tim, nearly spewing pizza guts all over the table, a look of shocked surprise across his face.
         The rest of the party turned and stared at him, perplexed.
         “She said swell…” Explained Tim. “That’s a very odd choice of words.”
         “Right.” Said Jason, pushing past the insanity of Tim. “So who’s heard about what Scott’s done to fuck up his life now?”
         Scott just rolled his eyes and sipped his milkshake. Jason wasn’t exactly as strangely eloquent as Tim, but he was charismatic, and it was hard to argue with him, even when he’s entirely wrong or flat out insulting you.
         “What did you do?” Asked Becky.
         “Joined band!” Cried Jason with delight. He loved making fun of the band kids, and even though I’d join in occasionally, for fun, I was getting second thoughts about it. They worked pretty damn hard
         “Is it true?” Whispered Tim with mock concern. “You haven’t honestly crossed over to the dark side, have you? Say it ain’t so, my friend, say it ain’t so!”
         “So.” Replied Scott, flippantly. “And it’s great. I’m meeting lots of new people, getting in shape, and it looks good on college applications. So HA!”
         “Choir looks way better.” Argued Tim, in a deliberately sing-song voice. “And the people in it do as well.”
         Scott looked ready to dispute this, but thought better of it. Tim and Becky saw right though him, though.
         “You met a girl, didn’t you?” Becky accused, pointing a greasy finger in his face. Pizza wasn’t exactly the healthiest dinner, but we weren’t exactly the healthiest people.
         “Her name’s Julie…” Started Scott, his voice a little bit softer. “She’s pretty and her hair is blonde and her eyes aren’t blonde and someday we’re going to be married.”
         He wasn’t kidding. The rest of us who were not enamored into submission looked around at each other, just waiting for someone to break the silence with some skeptical remark, or at least a little joke.
         “I call best man!” I declared, pumping my fist into the air.
         An enthusiastic immediately ensued, with everyone calling dibs on their official marriage positions, and bragging about how their wedding gift is going to be the best of all (like anyone’s gonna beat my air-hockey table) Elegant pizza chow-down at its finest.
         After The Pizza Place, Scott came over and we played Playstation in the basement. The basement was not quite as impressive as I’d like it to be, but it’s certainly got potential. Plain white walls, with the occasional crack or food stain, speckled with posters and calendars from years ago. On the faded orange shag carpeting, there was The Ugliest Couch in the Entire History of Really Ugly Couches. It was bright green, and patterned with pink and purple circles and stars. It’s ugly as fuck, but Scott and I adore it, and someday, when I discover a new country, the pattern of the couch is going to become the official flag of my country. Until then though, we just place our asses on it.
         “Dude, that was fucking awesum!” Laughed Scott, as I blew off the head of an innocent woman in a hat. Grand Theft Auto has got to be the most disgustingly violent game ever. Very fun.
         “Thanks,” I said, jerking my thumbs frantically, to avoid the shiny black FBI van that was speeding across the screen.          
         “Hey, Drew?” Scott asked, in a slightly different tone. Even with the distraction of the simulated explosions and the blood of innocent people, I could tell that he wanted to talk about something serious.
         “Have you ever been in love?” My eyes had minds of their own, and decided to shoot towards the back of my head. Luckily he didn’t see.
         “No.” I replied shortly. I was going to leave it at that, but it sounded slightly dickish. “I’ve liked girls sure, but I wouldn’t call it love.”
         “You’re missing out.” He sighed dreamily. “Julie’s such an angel.”
         Angel? Seriously? Just a couple weeks ago, Scott was telling us all about the faults and hypocrisies of religion, and now he was comparing this Julie chick to an angel? Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous.
         “Have you even talked to her yet?” I asked him, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
         “Once,” He said, staring off into the distance..or..really just the Coheed & Cambria poster on the wall. “She said, ‘wow it’s really hot out.’ And I said, ‘yeah it really is.’”
         “You didn’t say ‘maybe it’s just you’ or something like that? Where are you, dude?” I asked, a little shaken up. I couldn’t believe that Scott wasn’t being his usual, witty, hilarious self. This Julie chick was really making him act differently.
         “I didn’t wanna freak her out.” He explained, as if that were a satisfactory reason for not being himself.
         “Being the way you are shouldn’t freak her out.” I said, choosing my words carefully. “If she doesn’t like you for you, fuck her.”
         “Haha, you just wait, and pretty soon, I will.” Scott quipped with a grin. Good. I focused my attention back to Grand Theft Auto, glad that Scott could still think of something funny to say.