Ten minutes and two coffee-stained shirts later, Michael and Richie got to school.
“What happened to you guys?” a voice chirped. “Hanging out in Mrs. Farebender’s bathtub again?”
From behind them, Matt Rossenberg approached, munching on a plain bagel with three pounds too much cream cheese.
“No, your sister came by this morning. Things got messy,” Richie winked, then turned to his locker, which he still couldn’t open without getting the combo wrong at least once. “Let’s not start. I’m not awake yet,” Michael said. “Richie decided he was gonna become a coffee drinker this morning. I think he finished a whole sip.”
Matt laughed. He’d eaten a bagel every morning since they met him, yet still barely weighed over a hundred pounds — a problem he and Michael shared, and Chubbs envied.
“Coffee is an acquired taste, boys,” Richie said, slamming his locker shut. “Adults drink coffee. You wouldn’t understand.”
“And you’re an adult now?” Matt raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe. I did have the coffee.”
“Woah, what happened to you guys?” a squeaky voice cut in. “Richie’s mom?”
“Oh, shove it, Chubbs,” Richie replied, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Let’s go see if Heffler has some extra shirts in that freaky back closet where they store extra beakers and that old skeleton, I heard it’s a cadaver.”
“No way, Richie, you gotta stop watching Poltergeist,” Chubbs shivered, slightly straightening the straps on his backpack.
He patted Michael on the shoulder and led the way.
Mr. Heffler — Earth Science teacher and unofficial god of nerds — greeted them with goggles on, yellow gloves pulled up to the elbows, purple mystery liquid in beakers, and a smile like they’d just walked onto the Starship Enterprise.
“Gentlemen!” he said, pulling off his goggles. “What can I do for you?”
“Got any extra shirts?” Michael asked. “Richie had an audition for a Maxwell House commercial this morning. I think they’re gonna go with somebody else.”
“The nurse definitely has shirts—”
“Absolutely not, Heffler,” Richie said. “We’d rather die.”
“Would we?” Michael side-eyed him.
“I have to agree with Richie Four-Eyes,” Matt chimed in. “Those shirts are social suicide, dude.”
“Nurse Brandy gave me a new shirt earlier this year,” Chubbs said, pushing forward, eyeing his loosely-tied Nikes. “You didn’t tell me anything about it. I thought the shirt was cool, no?” He paused for a second, but everyone just stared. “It had Superman on it.”
Richie patted him on the shoulder. “It was cool, buddy. It was really cool.”
A smug grin broke across his face as the others laughed, and for a moment, everything felt safe.
(Full story available upon request)
