Read Online After Dakota by Kevin Sharp - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin Sharp
Tags: Young Adult
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Garrett Lucas, all sideburns and blond afro. And Dakota.
No, Rosemary.
“Cameron!”
“Hi,” he says, too enthusiastically. Then, hopefully calmer: “You joined Peace Club?”
That’s the extent of their conversation before she’s overwhelmed counting out money and baked goods. Geoff buys a brownie and two cookies.
The two boys find the senior section of the bleachers easily enough, but getting seated isn’t so easy. Inside each grade level, the cliques have segregated:
Jocks. Nerds. Madonnas. Punks. Preppies. Surf Preppies.
Not represented: Burnouts, Theatre Geeks (except for Geoff), and Hippies (except at the snack table).
What if you don’t belong to any of them? Too bad – there isn’t a clique called Regular People. Cameron and Geoff end up near the bottom, with Donny Montano and friends, floating between the two Preppie crowds (the main difference being the use of terms like “Hang Ten” and “Bogus”). The smell of pot wafts overhead; it’s not hard to guess which of the two groups is responsible.
Trevor Sargent shouts down at them, well ensconced in the Jock section. Cameron waves back, Geoff is busy hurriedly chowing down. Trevor’s just being friendly here; Cameron knows it isn’t an invitation to come up.
Hard to believe the baseball-playing stud, the guy who got some trophy last year, is the same Trevor who used to hang out with them. Hard to believe it’s the same Trevor who, one day on the school bus during seventh grade, tapped Cameron on the shoulder out of the blue and asked, “Do you know the weight of a silver dagger in D&D?” Like spies in an occupied country. Cameron has wondered a few times what about himself made Trevor assume he would know the answer to such a question.
Once Trevor found success in athletics, he chose the Jocks – and the popularity that comes along with them – over his ragtag band of friends. Who could blame him, really? Those guys are kings of campus, and even now the girls sitting around Trevor blur together into a big seven-eight-nine rated mass.
Meanwhile, down here sit Cameron and Geoff, his teeth painted chocolate. The occasional passerby mumbles, “‘Sup, pizza man.” Cameron wishes he could be up there with Trevor. He should’ve figured out some way, maybe come alone so he wouldn’t have this human anchor around his neck, keeping him down beneath the surface.
Cameron can’t see Rosemary anywhere.
“I should be high as a mother by halftime,” Geoff announces.
“They’re not gonna sell pot brownies with all these teachers around,” Donny says as players walk out to the center of the field for the coin toss.
The game begins. The boys know enough about football to know which direction the Thunderbirds should go. Beyond that, they clap and stand up when everyone else does. The cheerleaders do their routines in their skirts and turtlenecks, wearing enough blue eye shadow to serve as an aircraft landing strip. One advantage of sitting down at the bottom – maybe the only one – is being close enough to see nipples poking through uniforms in the chill air.
“Wow,” Geoff marvels. “Marion was flat as a board freshman year, but now her chest is in a different time zone than the rest of her.”
Rating cheerleaders is hard because they’re like multiple versions of the same person, living dolls delivered to schools straight off the assembly line. Arguing which one is hotter than the next is like arguing about which fast food restaurant has the best fries. If you were blindfolded, you couldn’t tell them apart.
The Thunderbirds keep going the wrong direction, the crowd gets restless, people yell. The clouds tighten up overhead.
At halftime,
HOME: 7
VISITORS: 17
The ROTC members in their creased uniforms make two lines in the middle of the field and hold up criss-crossed swords. The crowd stands while the homecoming king (Erik Carter, in a tuxedo) and queen (Hannah Arnold, dress and tiara) walk underneath, followed by all the
No, Rosemary.
“Cameron!”
“Hi,” he says, too enthusiastically. Then, hopefully calmer: “You joined Peace Club?”
That’s the extent of their conversation before she’s overwhelmed counting out money and baked goods. Geoff buys a brownie and two cookies.
The two boys find the senior section of the bleachers easily enough, but getting seated isn’t so easy. Inside each grade level, the cliques have segregated:
Jocks. Nerds. Madonnas. Punks. Preppies. Surf Preppies.
Not represented: Burnouts, Theatre Geeks (except for Geoff), and Hippies (except at the snack table).
What if you don’t belong to any of them? Too bad – there isn’t a clique called Regular People. Cameron and Geoff end up near the bottom, with Donny Montano and friends, floating between the two Preppie crowds (the main difference being the use of terms like “Hang Ten” and “Bogus”). The smell of pot wafts overhead; it’s not hard to guess which of the two groups is responsible.
Trevor Sargent shouts down at them, well ensconced in the Jock section. Cameron waves back, Geoff is busy hurriedly chowing down. Trevor’s just being friendly here; Cameron knows it isn’t an invitation to come up.
Hard to believe the baseball-playing stud, the guy who got some trophy last year, is the same Trevor who used to hang out with them. Hard to believe it’s the same Trevor who, one day on the school bus during seventh grade, tapped Cameron on the shoulder out of the blue and asked, “Do you know the weight of a silver dagger in D&D?” Like spies in an occupied country. Cameron has wondered a few times what about himself made Trevor assume he would know the answer to such a question.
Once Trevor found success in athletics, he chose the Jocks – and the popularity that comes along with them – over his ragtag band of friends. Who could blame him, really? Those guys are kings of campus, and even now the girls sitting around Trevor blur together into a big seven-eight-nine rated mass.
Meanwhile, down here sit Cameron and Geoff, his teeth painted chocolate. The occasional passerby mumbles, “‘Sup, pizza man.” Cameron wishes he could be up there with Trevor. He should’ve figured out some way, maybe come alone so he wouldn’t have this human anchor around his neck, keeping him down beneath the surface.
Cameron can’t see Rosemary anywhere.
“I should be high as a mother by halftime,” Geoff announces.
“They’re not gonna sell pot brownies with all these teachers around,” Donny says as players walk out to the center of the field for the coin toss.
The game begins. The boys know enough about football to know which direction the Thunderbirds should go. Beyond that, they clap and stand up when everyone else does. The cheerleaders do their routines in their skirts and turtlenecks, wearing enough blue eye shadow to serve as an aircraft landing strip. One advantage of sitting down at the bottom – maybe the only one – is being close enough to see nipples poking through uniforms in the chill air.
“Wow,” Geoff marvels. “Marion was flat as a board freshman year, but now her chest is in a different time zone than the rest of her.”
Rating cheerleaders is hard because they’re like multiple versions of the same person, living dolls delivered to schools straight off the assembly line. Arguing which one is hotter than the next is like arguing about which fast food restaurant has the best fries. If you were blindfolded, you couldn’t tell them apart.
The Thunderbirds keep going the wrong direction, the crowd gets restless, people yell. The clouds tighten up overhead.
At halftime,
HOME: 7
VISITORS: 17
The ROTC members in their creased uniforms make two lines in the middle of the field and hold up criss-crossed swords. The crowd stands while the homecoming king (Erik Carter, in a tuxedo) and queen (Hannah Arnold, dress and tiara) walk underneath, followed by all the
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