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breathlessness. Trust me, it’s an ordeal.
    In fact, it’s such an ordeal that as I walk down the hall toward my locker I think about nothing else. Just one leg, other leg, first leg, second leg, don’t huff, don’t sweat, don’t trip. Breathe.
    Then I see Curt—a mirage in the distance. He’s leaning against my locker surrounded by a small group of senior Goth kids. They’re gathered around him in the same manner people gather around a gruesome car accident, gaping unabashedly, black figuresprofiled against red lockers, staring in a daze at what they could become.
    I stare, too. I stop in the middle of the hallway and stare like he’s an apparition that will fade if I glance away. Jocks and cheerleaders have to go out of their way to get around me. Classroom doors open and shut. The loudspeaker crackles ominously.
    I think,
Curt MacCrae is standing at my locker. The real Curt MacCrae, not the least bit dead, is holding court at my locker
. Then I whisper, “There is a crowd gathered around my locker.” The corners of my fat mouth twitch.
    I take a careful step forward. The Goth kids are talking, mostly to each other. I hear the words “marijuana” and “band,” but nothing evokes a response from Curt. He just stands there, studying his sneakers, chipping paint from my locker, kicking at a wad of gum on the floor. Every now and then he glances up and nods shyly.
    I ache,
ache, I tell you
, to know how he does it. How does one person transcend everything about himself with so little effort? How does he pull us in like a magnet? He’s as skinny as I am fat, but people love him. They want to surround themselves with him.
    And of course, there’s not enough to go around.
    For a moment, I hate him. Then he sees me. Curt grins a lopsided grin and I move forward, caught in his tractor beam.
    The crowd notices me and for the first time I feel the weight of their eyes. I whisper to myself, “Do
not
screw up. Do
not
trip. Do
not
huff.” It’s my big debut. There are girls watching and every single one of them is hot. I glance at them out of the corners of my eyes, start to sweat, and have to force my gaze forward.
    Curt is motioning me to hurry up. He hops and paces, and as soon as I’m within arm’s length he pulls me aside even though people are still talking to him. He drags me to the end of the hall and we stand next to the emergency exit door. A rampant grin runs away from my puckered lips as I wait for Curt’s secret information.

    “Practice, second period?” he asks.
    I wait, confused.
After all that hopping and hurrying that’s all he has to say
?
    Curt takes out a couple pills and swallows them dry. Tilts his head back, and runs his fingers through his hair.
    “Tylenol,” he says when I don’t ask. “Headache.”
    I wait for more. Something about the band. Something important. I wait for a prediction of my future, the meaning of life, the secret handshake of initiated music lovers everywhere. When nothing comes I think,
Tylenol
?
    Suddenly it seems clear that this is not really happening. I may be deluded, but that wasn’t Tylenol and I can’t play the drums. It occurs to me that I’m the world’s biggest moron and this is the world’s biggest practical joke. Maybe everyone’s waiting for him to deliver the punch line.
    Did you really think I wanted to form a band with you
?!
    But Curt doesn’t deliver his line and no one laughs.
    In fact, this is probably the first time since fourth grade that I’m the center of attention and no one is laughing. An ironic development. I even see Dayle lingering with the rest of the freshmen and staring in my direction
without laughing
.
    I hesitate. This might be my last chance to avoid, yet again, becoming the laughingstock of the entire school. I should walk away before it’s too late, throw myself out the window before Curt has a chance to turn on me. It’s the only choice that shows a hint of self-respect. I pause.
    A hundred eyes stare in our