I'm with Stupid by Geoff Herbach Page B

says, “Was that hat thing a joke?”
    â€œNo,” I say.
    His face is red. “Good. Crappy joke. Wow,” he says. Terry Sauter drives me and Jerri home.
    Holy shit. I saw the insignias. I saw my hand reaching for the Badger hat. Holy shit. Why did you do that?
    Wisconsin doesn’t call. Northwestern doesn’t call. Not to Be Named doesn’t call. Stanford leaves a message and tells me to call back that afternoon. “So excited,” the coach says. “Good times coming.”
    Tovi texts: STANFORD!
    Cody texts: congrats.
    Abby texts: is my dad screwing your mom?
    At home, after ten minutes of looking at the Internet in my bedroom, I hold my head in my hands. I sort of laugh. This what you wanted? The State of Wisconsin hates me. Wisconsin wants me dead. You should see some of those messages…
    ***
    Okay.
    A couple hours after I held my head in my hands, I called up the Stanford coaching staff—not to get the letter-signing crap set up, the administrative stuff (we did deal with that), but so I could hear these people who were happy, who didn’t care that I was an asshole. The running back coach said, “Can’t wait to get you out to Palo Alto, buddy!”
    â€œCan’t wait to be there,” I said.
    â€œTalk soon.”
    I needed that. I didn’t like being hated, even if I’d caused it, even if part of me wanted it. Why?
    I think I know why.
    Hate causes hate. My Badger hat grab worked. For days after the grab, I stopped seeing my dad hanging. I stopped seeing him buried in the ground. I stopped trembling all the time. I had a new battle. Against the State of Wisconsin.
    Uncovering stopped. Covering up started.
    Rebury the dead.
    Guys like me don’t want to deal because dealing is goddamn hard. Dealing is torture. Living the hell again and again. Who wants to do that? Do you understand? Fighting with the State of Wisconsin is easier, even though it’s stupid and useless.
    I still feel like a prick.

Launching Stupid Chickens

Chapter 20
    No Thanks, Andrew
    On the night of the announcement, Andrew called. He said, “Congratulations. I’ve never been to Stanford, but I understand it’s a beautiful school.”
    I’d begun stewing. “No shit, you’ve never been to Stanford,” I said.
    â€œNo shit?” he asked. “Grandpa said he already knew you were going there.”
    â€œI told him.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me,” Andrew said.
    â€œYou weren’t interested,” I said.
    â€œOf course I was interested,” he said.
    â€œI have to go. I’m cooking a frozen pizza,” I said.
    â€œWait. I just emailed you a list of therapists, along with some thoughts on each of them. Just wanted to give you warning. I’m glad you’re going to…”
    â€œNot now,” I hissed.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Andrew asked.
    The landline rang. I was in the kitchen, so I could see the caller ID. The caller was from northern Wisconsin, the 715 area code.
    â€œYou there?” Andrew asked.
    â€œJust a second,” I said and waited to hear the message because people were leaving some badass messages.
    The caller hung up.
    â€œNobody home,” I said.
    â€œWhat?” Andrew asked. “Are you talking about your brain because you’re acting so weird?”
    â€œNo. That’s the past. I’m done with the past. I’m moving on,” I said.
    â€œFelton. I just thought. I thought you were…”
    â€œI’m tired,” I said. The oven alarm started beeping. “Gotta go. Pizza,” I said.
    â€œFelton?” Andrew asked.
    I hung up. I ate pizza. I read mean things about me on the Internet while I ate pizza.
    Andrew called back. I didn’t answer. He left a simple message: “Check your email, you ass face.”
    The landline rang again. Same 715 number. No message.
    I checked my email, but only to read mean messages Wisconsin people