Read Online Losers by Matthue Roth - Free Book Online

popular kids do when they’re trying to be adultlike, as if to say, We can get some any time we want to, so we don’t need to prove it.
    Reg wrapped one firm, worked-out muscular arm around me, leading me away. I glanced behind me toward Devin, flashing her a quizzical expression. Suspicion loomed in my head that she was just trying to get rid of me.
    As if she could hear my thoughts, she shook her head, and the curls at the ends of her hair shook in agreement. She mouthed the words at me, “Work your accent,” and winked before turning away to address a crowd of short-skirted girls. I couldn’t help but wonder why she couldn’t have introduced me to them instead.
    â€œSo, Jupe,” said Reg, once we were clear, “what have you been up to, and how the hell did you wind up at one of Devin’s social drink-a-ramas?”
    Reg Callowhill! Oh, oh, whoa. In all the madness of the crowd that was Devin Murray, I hadn’t even realized who she was talking to—Reg Callowhill, who used to be my Frisbee partner in the JCC community kindergarten. When we were five, we were unbelievably tight. We had each other’s backs like old-school gangsta rappers. The next year, his parents sent him to private school, and I was left to flounder by myself in Wilson Goode Elementary School. Since then, Reg had moved on to bigger and better while I had somehow managed to stay true to my loser roots.
    For some reason, there was no question in my head aboutopening up to him. I hadn’t drunk anything, but I was feeling giddy anyway.
    â€œI don’t,” I babbled to him. “I live right around here, and one of my friends got wind of the party, and my parents were screwing with me—for a change—and I was just, like, what the hell. I can jump right out my window, you know? I just needed to escape. I mean, this has been practically the worst week ever—I just started at North Shore—”
    â€œWhoa, no way! You’re at North Shore? I just transferred out of Blessed Sacrament. I’m at North Shore, too!”
    I was about to say, No duh, Reg—in case you haven’t noticed, you’re already in line to be King of the School, and the rest of the students only think I’m important when the person who’s beating me up is important. But then I realized that if he hadn’t heard any news of my run-ins with Bates, it was actually a good sign. Maybe my reputation, as carcinogenic as it had been to start out, was not etched in stone for all eternity.
    â€œHere,” he was saying, “let me show you around. That’s Crash Goldberg. You know him, I guess—Crash, get your hands off her, she’s gay!—and these are the guys. Guys, this is Jupiter. He’s cool, so treat him good. Hey, somebody get him a beer?”
    In a few minutes, I was playing it totally cool, beer in hand, telling wildly entertaining stories about my exploits over the first week of school and my adventures hanging out in the Yards. Because they were drunk, they all thought every word I said was the funniest, most diabolically clever thing in the universe. Because I wasn’t, I kept on top of the game, keeping them laughing, making sure they were never laughing at me. I was only pretending to sip my beer—not because I was a prude oranything, but because I didn’t really trust myself to get drunk in a room full of potential hazards to my physical being. My parents had raised me on mother’s milk and vodka, and if there was one thing I knew how to do right at this party, it was to carry my alcohol.
    These jocks were seeming alright, but, you know, I didn’t need to push it. Finally, one of them slapped me on the back, laughing so hard he was wheezing, and said, “Jupiter, you are the greatest. I don’t even know why you’re the greatest but you are , man. You tell that Bates punk, if he ever messes with you, he’s gonna have to deal with us,