Stand-Off by Andrew Smith

clipboard.
    â€œI’m writing a piece for the school newspaper,” I squeaked. “I was wondering how to pronounce your name, sir.”
    Headmaster Lavoie laughed.
    Mrs. Knudson laughed.
    It was all so fucking funny, wasn’t it?
    I handed the clipboard back to Mrs. Knudson, mumbling something about changing my mind and throwing in an abbreviated apology to both of them for wasting their time. And, fully embarrassed for all kinds of reasons, I ducked out of Headmaster Unpronounceable-secret-name’s office and followed the departing Cosentino family to the school’s parking lot.
    Of course, I had no idea what I might say to them, only that I felt an urgent need to let them know who I was before they left, because I was certain I’d never have a chance to speak with Joey’s parents and brother again.
    I couldn’t let that happen.
    So I dashed out into the parking lot just as Mr. Cosentino was getting into the driver’s seat of what I guessed could only be a rental car—because it was a red minivan, and there was no way I could picture anybody in Joey’s family driving a red minivan. I waved my arm and saidsomething dumb like “Excuse me! Mr. Cosentino? Excuse me! Wait up!”
    Which caught Joey’s dad’s attention, stopping him at his open van door. And when he looked back, I can only assume this is what he saw: He saw me, Ryan Dean West, waving my hand over my head like a dork and looking at him with pleading eyes. Then he probably saw me cutting between one of the first rows of diagonally parked cars. The car I jogged past happened to be Seanie Flaherty’s black off-road vehicle (I know, right? Now that Seanie was a senior, not only could he drive a car, but he was allowed to keep his own car here at Pine Mountain, and actually go places—like home on the weekends, since his family lived in Beaverton, to visit his vast pornography collection), and I couldn’t help but notice all the inappropriate bumper stickers Seanie had all over the back window, like the one that read RUGBY, BECAUSE YOU’RE ALREADY DRUNK! And I thought, Man, if Headmaster Whatever-that-dude’s-human-name-is ever notices this, he’s going to make Seanie take it off .
    And then Mr. Cosentino probably saw the waving, cutting-between-the-cars dorky dude hook the toe of his right foot square into one of those goddamned concrete-turd thingies that like Headmaster Lavoie’s last name no human being knows what to call them, and that also separate rows of parking spots, and then lurch forward like the waving, cutting-between-the-cars dorky dude was running away from a German trench in World War I and just caught a Mauser round squarely between his shoulder blades.
    I went down.
    And while I was noticing the smell of asphalt and considering the acidic sting of a certainly road-rashed knee, I could only imagine the Cosentino family having an in-van conversation that went something like this:



I got up.
    When I dusted myself off, I noticed my pants were ripped, and through that newly opened window I could see a bloody right knee.
    Great.
    Mr. Cosentino just stood beside his car and watched, no doubt wondering what the hell was going on with the kid, the lion pit, and the parking lot.
    I waved. “I’m okay.”
    What an idiot.
    Mr. Cosentino turned to get into the van.
    â€œNo. Wait. Can I talk to you for a minute, Mr. Cosentino?”
    I threaded my way between the next row of cars and crossed to where the Cosentinos sat in their red minivan. When I got up to the driver’s-side door, Mr. Cosentino grimaced slightly and pointed at my bloody knee.
    â€œOh. Uh, wow. Are you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I said. Then I stuck out my hand and realized I still had bits of gravel embedded in my palm. I wiped my hand off on my butt and stuck it out again.
    â€œMr. Cosentino, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Ryan Dean West, and I . . .