Read Online The Great American Whatever by Tim Federle - Free Book Online

butt lights up.
    FIREFLY
    You’re funny.
    QUINN
    I am?
    FIREFLY
    You are.
    QUINN
    That’s nice. It’s been a while since anyone’s said that.
    The firefly steps onto Quinn’s finger. It’s been a long time since anything has trusted him like this.
    I wipe the sweat from my neck and kneel over. For two seconds I allow myself the possibility that the firefly might actually speak to me.
    But when I press my finger to the flower, she just flies away.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    â€œHey, do you carry helmets?”
    â€œAisle six.”
    I’m working on a new theory. The new theory is that every person gets corrupted at some point. That there is a moment that changes you forever, from this to that. Innocent to wary.
    Example: Tiffany Devlin, across the street, was born with six toes on her left foot, and one day in the fourth grade she arrived as “the new girl” in school, and we all just instantly nicknamed her Toe-fanny, like it was Lord of the Flies . Now, it was not particularly original, as slurs go—this is coming from “Queen” Roberts—but you get the drift. You don’t want to be called Toe-fanny if you’re a kid with six toes.
    That day was Tiffany’s corruption. Welcome to the neighborhood.
    I bend over in this sports equipment place and hunt for the cheapest helmet. There are so many options here that I feel like I’m shopping for air conditioners again.
    Anyway, the minute you get corrupted is the moment you understand what it feels like to lose something. Not when you lose a Little League game. Not when you lose a grandparent, even. That’s not a scandal—that’s nature. What’s everybody doing crying over their eighty-five-year-old Nana dropping dead in her nursing home in the middle of crafts day? What did you think was going to happen? That Nana was going to be the first person literally ever who bucked the trend known as the Life Cycle? Not a scandal. Roll the credits.
    I walk this seventeen-dollar jet-black helmet to the cash register up front. See, I’m buying it because after the firefly flew away, I got back on my bike and this car whipped around the fork blasting country music (always trouble), and it nearly killed me flat. Like: I felt the hair on my face (I don’t really have to shave yet; it’s like a step up from peach fuzz) get literally grazed .
    Now that I know what it’s like to lose something real—December twentieth was my corruption—everything is different. You start doing stuff like buying yourself helmets, even if you’re only sixteen. You start thinking: Maybe I ought to remember to buckle up right away from now on. It’s not that I particularly know what I’m living for anymore. I’m an extremely limited filmmaker without the vision and silent encouragement of my sister—the only person I ever read my first drafts out loud to. I just can’t stand the thought of Mom losing both her kids in a single year.
    I mean, really. I love a good Terms of Endearment as much as the next guy, but not as my fucking life.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Geoff is working the coffee counter. I get in line and start to get really giggly that he hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s going to flip. He’s got the branded Loco Mocha hat on and everything. He looks cute, for Geoff. Something’s off, though.
    â€œQuinn!” He spots me, finally, and flashes the goony grin. “How did you get here?”
    â€œYour dad gave me a free Corolla.”
    â€œWait, what?”
    â€œI’m kidding.”
    Geoff comes out from behind the counter and gives me one of those straight-boy half hugs. I realize what’s off now. His mustache. Literally. Thank God.
    â€œJesus, you could have warned me,” he says, pulling away.
    â€œSorry.” My body is now where sweat goes to party.
    â€œCan I get your order started?” he asks. He is so psyched, and runs back