right when he said Hilary preferred Karen Watson only because she didn’t like how Karen Hitchcock tried to imitate her hairstyle, but Adam ended the debate when he said, “Who made you the expert on hair, Flamebrain?” causing Benji to be self-conscious about his own unruly crop, and to stand next to Karen Watson at the windowpane tugging despondently at the ends of his floppy orange curls.
We were all big on rankings in that school. We ranked the girls, who ranked us, or maybe not us, but probably other boys. The teachers ranked everyone. It was their consensus that Eric Findley was not only the best writer in the fifth grade, but also better than any writer in the sixth grade. Adam and I agreed that was bullshit too, not so much Eric being better than the older kids—we also thought the older kids were lame, nearly lame enough to be DC superheroes—but we disagreed that Eric was a better writer than me.
I’d already, after all, sent half-a-dozen story proposals to the immortal Stan Lee at Marvel. Most of them centered around Captain America battling the Red Skull on a submarine deep in the North Atlantic, or Daredevil waging war against the Kingpin in Hell’s Kitchen. I thought fighting sequences were my biggest strength. I could always write the heroes into a place where it seemed like the villains were about to win, and then, somehow, Cap or DD would dig into those limitless reserves of heart and courage and throw the perfect elbow jab to save the day. All my proposals got rejected, but on one of them—a strange effort where Captain America actually lost a battle to the Red Skull and wound up floating on his shield in the middle of the Atlantic, barely alive, beaten and depressed, wondering if good could ever truly triumph over evil—a guy who signed his name
Morris Balmer, Intern,
wrote a short personal note on the form letter. “Not bad, Lawrence,” the note said. “Keep at it.”
Adam was excited when I showed it to him. “See,” he said, “this proves the shitbrain teachers don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re definitely a better writer than Eric.”
“The letter’s cool,” Benji said, “but don’t forget what Eric did with his grasshopper story.”
We hadn’t. Benji’s reminder made all three of us pause for a second and envision Hilary as she ceased her note-passing and contemplated the pencils in the ceiling, how she lolled her head back and stretched her fingers against her thighs.
“What if Eric really does have an uncle in Hollywood?” Benji said. “What if he did write a script?”
Two days later Benji told us he was going out with Karen Watson. He said it when he was sitting in a heap on the ground, his lanky legs clumped over each other like dirty laundry. He’d fallen off the monkey bars and twisted his ankle. “I’m distracted,” he said. “I don’t know if I can be The Torch anymore.”
“What are you distracted by?” I asked him.
“I have a girlfriend now,” he said. “Karen Watson. That’s a weakness. A smart villain could kidnap her to get to me. I’m vulnerable.”
“Bullshit,” Adam said. Even though we agreed Karen was, at best, the third prettiest girl in our class, still, she was way too pretty for Benji.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You know how I sometimes stand next to her at the windowpane?”
“Of course, moron,
you’re
not invisible,” Adam said.
“Yeah, well,” Benji said, “this morning when I was standing next to Karen, she said she could sense I was a nice person. So I asked her out. Watch, I bet she sends Hilary a note in class to tell her about it. I bet Hilary reads the note.”
Perhaps Adam could already sense that Benji didn’t really have the heart to fight evil, that in three weeks he wouldn’t bother coming to the Marvel Comics convention in Manhattan, that in four weeks he’d barely talk to us at all. Maybe that’s what made Adam so angry at Eric.
For a long moment, he looked over at the
We were all big on rankings in that school. We ranked the girls, who ranked us, or maybe not us, but probably other boys. The teachers ranked everyone. It was their consensus that Eric Findley was not only the best writer in the fifth grade, but also better than any writer in the sixth grade. Adam and I agreed that was bullshit too, not so much Eric being better than the older kids—we also thought the older kids were lame, nearly lame enough to be DC superheroes—but we disagreed that Eric was a better writer than me.
I’d already, after all, sent half-a-dozen story proposals to the immortal Stan Lee at Marvel. Most of them centered around Captain America battling the Red Skull on a submarine deep in the North Atlantic, or Daredevil waging war against the Kingpin in Hell’s Kitchen. I thought fighting sequences were my biggest strength. I could always write the heroes into a place where it seemed like the villains were about to win, and then, somehow, Cap or DD would dig into those limitless reserves of heart and courage and throw the perfect elbow jab to save the day. All my proposals got rejected, but on one of them—a strange effort where Captain America actually lost a battle to the Red Skull and wound up floating on his shield in the middle of the Atlantic, barely alive, beaten and depressed, wondering if good could ever truly triumph over evil—a guy who signed his name
Morris Balmer, Intern,
wrote a short personal note on the form letter. “Not bad, Lawrence,” the note said. “Keep at it.”
Adam was excited when I showed it to him. “See,” he said, “this proves the shitbrain teachers don’t know what they’re talking about. You’re definitely a better writer than Eric.”
“The letter’s cool,” Benji said, “but don’t forget what Eric did with his grasshopper story.”
We hadn’t. Benji’s reminder made all three of us pause for a second and envision Hilary as she ceased her note-passing and contemplated the pencils in the ceiling, how she lolled her head back and stretched her fingers against her thighs.
“What if Eric really does have an uncle in Hollywood?” Benji said. “What if he did write a script?”
Two days later Benji told us he was going out with Karen Watson. He said it when he was sitting in a heap on the ground, his lanky legs clumped over each other like dirty laundry. He’d fallen off the monkey bars and twisted his ankle. “I’m distracted,” he said. “I don’t know if I can be The Torch anymore.”
“What are you distracted by?” I asked him.
“I have a girlfriend now,” he said. “Karen Watson. That’s a weakness. A smart villain could kidnap her to get to me. I’m vulnerable.”
“Bullshit,” Adam said. Even though we agreed Karen was, at best, the third prettiest girl in our class, still, she was way too pretty for Benji.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You know how I sometimes stand next to her at the windowpane?”
“Of course, moron,
you’re
not invisible,” Adam said.
“Yeah, well,” Benji said, “this morning when I was standing next to Karen, she said she could sense I was a nice person. So I asked her out. Watch, I bet she sends Hilary a note in class to tell her about it. I bet Hilary reads the note.”
Perhaps Adam could already sense that Benji didn’t really have the heart to fight evil, that in three weeks he wouldn’t bother coming to the Marvel Comics convention in Manhattan, that in four weeks he’d barely talk to us at all. Maybe that’s what made Adam so angry at Eric.
For a long moment, he looked over at the
Similar Books
