Stupid Fast by Geoff Herbach Page B

Karpinski but had plans to grill with him and watch a football movie, remember, so I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t really think I’d embarrass him. He’s a jock. And he’s a really good catch. But, it would seem, he isn’t very fast. I jogged around, and he stumbled all over himself. Cody threw the ball, and I caught it.
    “Jesus Christ,” Karpinski shouted. Then he walked up to me and smacked the ball out of my hands, which I wasn’t ready for. I sort of tensed because it was an asshole thing to do, something Karpinski would do to Squirrel Nuts. But then he said, “Nobody can cover you, Rein Stone.” He was totally breathing hard like he was going to barf. “We’re gonna kick everybody’s ass.” That put me back at ease.
    At the end, Cody said, “Coach doesn’t want me to do this, but just for fun, let’s do a fly.” Everyone else was drinking water out of bottles, lying around on the ground, sweating.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Line up about in the slot.”
    “Where?”
    “Thirty feet that way,” Cody pointed, “When I say go, just goddamn gun it. I’ll try to hit you.”
    “Downfield?” I asked.
    “Yup.”
    Everyone watched. I stood like I’d seen receivers stand on TV. When Cody said go, I let loose. I hadn’t run like that since track, and it felt unbelievably great. When I was about twenty yards down the field, Cody threw the ball. I tried to keep one eye on it and one on the ground, which didn’t work, and I stumbled a little. I balanced myself and kept running. Looking up, it seemed like the ball was a thousand feet in the air, and it seemed like it was going to pass me by and land way in front of me, so I just strode out as hard as I could, kept my eye in the sky, the little brown blob against the clear blue—and then it got bigger and bigger, and it was falling in front of me, so I stretched my arms way out and watched the ball drop into my hands. The honkies all cried “Woo!” Somebody shouted “Holy shit!” I turned around and jogged back toward the group like that catch was something I’ve done my whole squirrel nut life. Inside my chest, though, my heart exploded, not with heart attacks but with everything.
    Catching a ball is the best.“That was the damn bomb right there,” Karpinski said, high-fiving me as I got to them.
    Honkies smiling everywhere.
    I smiled so hard I thought my face would break.
    ***
    After pass routes, Cody put my bike in the back of his truck.
    “That’s a hell of an old bike,” he said.
    “It’s from when my dad was a kid,” I told him.
    “It’s from when you were a kid. You’ve been riding that bike for like three years. You used to look hilarious on it.”
    “Um.” Why did Cody remember my bike? Did I look that dumb? “Yeah. I could barely reach the pedals a couple years ago. Now it fits perfectly.”
    “It was your dad’s?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He must have been tall too.”
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    Me, Cody, and Karpinski then drove over to Main Street to grab a sub. We listened to rap music. I’d never listened to rap music. I felt like I was in some kind of bad ass rap-jock movie. Thump. Thump. Thump. Rap sort of makes things in slow motion. Heat came off the streets, which were reflecting the sun. The speakers boomed kind of lazy and scary.
    Along the way, Karpinski—who was seriously sitting on my lap (“You pop wood, Rein Stone, and I’m going to have to punch you.”), which was gross, he was completely sweaty—said, “Erin Bellmeyer on the right.” Erin, a honky girl, walked down the street. Karpinski slid over me to get to the open window and then shouted, “Hey, Erin! Hey, Erin! You’re my Balls’ Mayor!” She laughed and flipped him off.
    I don’t completely understand honky humor, which is maybe why I’ve not been funny.
    At Subway, Karpinski was totally loud, swearing constantly, jamming a sandwich in his face, spitting food out, firing wet pieces of bread out of his straw at younger kids,