Read Online I'm with Stupid by Geoff Herbach - Free Book Online Page A

moved on from the conversation, but my hands were balled into fists. I was pretty close to crushing Karpinski. Here’s what I thought: Why don’t you bully me, you dick? I’m a dipshit. Bully me, okay?
    In Dubuque, I didn’t have a lot to say.
    â€œCome on, man, lighten up,” Karpinski said. “I was just joking. I wouldn’t kick that fat pig kid. He’s beneath me, man,” Karpinski said as we waited for Abby outside PacSun, where she bought clothes that made her look like a beach volleyball player. (She was an All-Conference volleyball player after all.)
    I just nodded at Karpinski.
    â€œYou think Abby’s drunk?” he asked.
    â€œI protect the dipshits, man,” I said.
    â€œOoh, I’m scared,” Karpinski laughed.
    ***
    Jerri took me to the airport in Madison the next morning. “Have fun!” she said dropping me off.
    She didn’t say, “I’ll miss you.”
    Back in Bluffton, Jerri disappeared into the arms of a dude named Terry Sauter. (Is that last name familiar to you?)

Winter Break
    Am I Brutal Like My Dead Dad?

Chapter 15
    Grandpa Stan Thinks I’m Dad’s Clone
    My grandpa Stan sipped an iced tea on the side of his backyard pool. It wasn’t too warm outside, maybe mid-70s, but Andrew and Tovi were swimming around, splashing each other. The sky above was winter Florida blue. Grandpa’s little palm trees blew around in a breeze. I lay on a deck chair next to him.
    â€œWhy do you play such a brutal game?” he asked.
    â€œFootball?” I asked.
    â€œWhat other game do you play?” he asked.
    Tovi had told us earlier in the morning that she’d accepted a tennis scholarship to the University of Georgia. Andrew and I were like, “That’s amazing! That’s so cool!”
    Grandpa Stan said, “Are you sure, sweetheart? You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”
    Up until my grandma Rose’s death a year ago and Andrew’s entry into his life, Grandpa Stan only cared about tennis. That’s what Tovi told me. I wouldn’t know because Grandpa wouldn’t talk to us back then. He pushed Tovi to play like he pushed my dad when he was a teen. Tovi said, “He just yelled at me to work harder and run harder, and he shouted at me about scholarships all the time.”
    But that morning in Florida, he said to her, “Maybe you should stop the competitions and start having a little fun.”
    â€œWhat the hell?” was Tovi’s response.
    So…
    â€œWhy do you play such a brutal game?” Grandpa Stan asked me.
    â€œIt’s fun.”
    â€œFun? Murder is fun?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s not murder,” I said.
    â€œSlaughter? Is that a better word?” he asked.
    Remember, Grandpa had been at Bluffton’s homecoming game in the fall. We played Prairie du Chien and I destroyed them. Coach Johnson took me out midway through the third quarter because we were ahead by a lot and the Prairie players were diving on the ground instead of hitting me because I’d crushed so many of them that they’d gotten scared. (I like that feeling, knowing they’re scared of me. I look to hit them instead of running toward open field.) Recruiters said I run angry.
    â€œI don’t slaughter anybody. It’s a game. I score touchdowns.”
    â€œYou could play golf. Have you ever played golf?” Grandpa asked. “It’s very relaxing.”
    â€œI’m one of the best football players in the country. I don’t want to play golf.”
    â€œHow can that be fun? Breaking people’s backs?”
    â€œI get out my frustration…It makes me feel normal.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Grandpa Stan waved his hand, dismissing the conversation.
    Tovi and Andrew splashed around. I rolled off the chair, stretched in the sun, then cherry-bombed the hell out of them.
    ***
    NCAA rules forbid schools from contacting recruits between