Read Bad Kid for Free Online Page A

times.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3. Be the first one in and out of the shower.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  4. Monitor the pitch of your voice.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  5. Run laps alone to avoid group sports.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  6. Don’t look anywhere you don’t have to.
    Number six was my biggest challenge: keeping my latitudinal gaze in check.
    The next day, after running laps for forty-five minutes, I found a small corner locker to change by. Just as I sat on the bench, a thickset eighteen-year-old with a husky voice and full, bushy pubes approached me from the shower.
    â€œHey, dude. Are you using this locker?” he asked, his dewy genitals bouncing mere inches from my face as he towel-dried his hair.
    â€œNo,” I answered in a low-pitched, testosterone-full croak, like a robot with a vocal modulation disorder.
    Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down .
    I stared as hard as I could into his eyes as he towered over me, which was probably creepier than if I’d just looked down and answered his dick directly.
    No, Mr. Penis. I am not using this locker. You and your pendulous, man-size testicles are welcome to use this locker if you wish .
    Creepy or not, my little manifesto was working. By carefully following my strict set of guidelines, I avoided all unnecessary human interaction. Sure, there were a few girls I’d chat with in class and a nerdy boy with weird teeth who’d talk to me in the library. But by October, outside of a few blink-and-you’ll-miss-them interactions with acquaintances, I hadn’t made a single real friend. I was proud of myself.
    One day in October I was running laps when I heard Coach Allen blow the whistle. The coach had a head of pale yellow-white hair and a pinched, sunburned face. He looked like a bigger, sloppier John Madden.
    â€œCome on in, ladies!” he bellowed like a human foghorn, his bowling-ball belly hanging over his tight blue shorts. “Time to change out!”
    By that point, I had my locker-room process down to a science. After a quick armpit rinse followed by a towel-shielded change-out, I was done. Five minutes later I was walking back to the bleachers to wait for the bell before the other boys were even out of the shower. I felt pretty good about my process over the last few weeks and smiled, happy that I’d reached a whole new level of camouflage and solitude so quickly.
    And then I saw him.
    Near the top of the bleachers was a new boy. His hair was expertly moussed. His clothes were perfectly unwrinkled. He had clear, tan skin and a strong, square jaw. He wore Ray-Bans and stared down into a notebook. I couldn’t tell if he was reading or sleeping, but it was clear that he hadn’t broken a sweat in the last hour.
    I sat down a few feet away from him in my pale-blue polo shirt and tan slacks, dressed like a used-car dealer or someone’s stepfather. In his backpack I noticed the name Greg Brooks scrawled across the spine of a textbook. Greg was dressed like someone from television, in stylish acid-washed Guess jeans and a striped Cavaricci pullover. The boy sat as still as a marble sculpture, listening to his Sony Discman. It was the newish pale-gray model with orange control buttons that I’d been wanting for weeks.
    Hey, Greg. I’m David .
    I could imagine myself saying it, and almost hear the words coming out of my mouth. I cleared my throat and thought I saw his eyebrow flinch, which sent me into an anxiety hole. I had to talk to him. I took a deep breath and parted my lips just as the bell rang. Greg sprang to life and sprinted away with his backpack. He moved so quickly that it took my breath away, like everything he would do over the next few weeks. Every color-blocked ensemble, every slight variation