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look over my shoulder, scurrying to the door under the deck. Making as little noise as possible, I try the handle. It’s locked, but I expected that.
    I go to the rock under the bush near the rear picture window. I pick it up and pull out the spare—
    Wait a second. Where’s the stupid key! No! I feel around in the dirt, searching for it, until my fingers encounter an unseen spider web and I jerk my hand back, shuddering.
    I straighten up and nearly let out a scream as I spot the face pressed against the glass. It takes my brain a few seconds to realize it’s Josh, cackling at me from the other side of the window.
    â€œAsshole!” I hiss at him.
    He doesn’t answer. He just holds up the spare key—the one that should be under the rock—and grins, and then points in the direction of the tent.

CHAPTER SIX
MY PEEPS ARE INTRODUCED, MY COWARDLY SHALLOWNESS IS MADE MANIFEST, AND A FANTASTICAL PLAN IS ENVISIONED
    â€œTurn you into a man?” says Danny.
    â€œThat’s what he says, yes.”
    â€œYou?” says Steve.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œGood luck with
that,
” sniggers Paul.
    â€œYeah, thanks.”
    It’s the first lunch period, the lunchroom loud with jabbering seventh- and eighth-graders and silverware and thick plastic trays clattering on the hard surface of the long tables, cell phones blooping and ring-toning as everyone takes advantage of the one time during the day when we can call and text. I’m sitting with Danny Wong and Steve Wilton and Paul Schoener in our usual spot among the patchworked territories of students, the Jocks and popular girls and Sk8ters and Happies and so on grouped with each other and talking about whatever it is they talk about. In our four-seat patch we’re discussing the Quest. Or at least they are, and I’m grunting answers to them.
    â€œSo what else is he making you do?”
    â€œI don’t know. It just started.”
    I’ve got my elbows on the table, and I’m gingerly massaging my sunburned temples with my hands. It turns out that camouflage paint doesn’t have a very high SPF rating. I also have several attractive welts on my face from mosquito bites. Every layer of my body hurts, from my skin to my skeleton.
    â€œMaybe he’ll make you get a tattoo,” suggests Steve.
    â€œYeah, of some pubes,” says Danny.
    High-fives and giggling.
    â€œC’mon, dude, that’s
funny!
” insists Danny, punching me in the shoulder. It’s excruciating, but I still can’t avoid a weak laugh.
    Danny Wong: skinny, clear braces, zit patches on both cheeks. Paul: average build, forehead zits, his expression set to Friendly Dog, able to reenact almost every scene from
Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Steve: taller than all of us, taller than most everyone in seventh grade, but with a pudgy face that makes him look eight years old.
    My peeps.
    We’ve known each other and shared the same gifted classes since third grade. I know we’ll be solid until that far-off time when college does us part, and maybe beyond then. We’re the Not-Thems: not Jocks or Stoners or Sk8ters or Happies or Rockers or the popular crowd or anything, really, other than four guys clinging to each other as we tread water desperately, trying to avoid being bashed against the rocks of the popular crowd or sucked into the nerd whirlpool that’s always threatening to engulf us. They can give me all the crap they want, because in the end there’s no one else I’m closer to, maybe not even my parents, and that will never change. Ever.
    â€œMaybe he’ll get you a prostitute,” says Steve.
    Excited discussion among the three of them of that unlikely event.
    â€œHe’ll probably make you eat dog shit,” says Paul.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDog shit. That’s what my uncle had to do when he joined his fraternity.”
    Danny puts down his fork. “Okay, he did
not
eat dog