In Beta Page 3

  “Whew. I thought for sure we were goners.”

  Jay stared wistfully after Liz and shook his head. “I’ve never wanted to be in yearbook so bad.”

  They tiptoed toward the vending machine. En Vogue’s “You’re Never Gonna Get It” blasted from a boom box. The northern doors clanged open and Jay jumped. But it was only Wacky Zach hobbling in on crutches. A few freshmen pointed and shouted.

  “Hey! Zach’s back!”

  Wacky Zach spun around and pretended to check his back, then he lifted a crutch and played it like an air guitar. The crowd clapped.

  Feeling emboldened by the commotion, Jay squared off with the vending machine. Its sides were carved with decades of abuse: “Brandi loves Marc,” “For a good time call 365-4492,” and a slew of nasty words too terrible to repeat. Colin fished in his pocket for quarters while Jay shook his head.

  “No, my friend. My treat.”

  He plunked his coins into the machine. Behind them, a group of girls was talking loudly:

  “Oh God, how could Donna not have seen that coming?”

  “It was so obvious Pierre wanted her for more than just her modeling career.”

  “I don’t care how many times they play that episode; I love it.”

  “Jeez,” Jay whispered to Colin. “How many times are they gonna air that episode?”

  “You watch it?”

  “Of course I watch it.” Jay pushed the “H” and “5” on the vending machine. There was a whirring noise, and two Turtles Pies dropped into the metal bin. “It’s on literally every day.”

  Colin scooped up the pies and handed one to Jay. “Speaking of which, you catch that last Simpsons? Bart and Lisa start writing for Itchy & Scratchy.”

  “No,” Jay said, turning slightly pink. His mom had only just gotten a used TV.

  “Then how are you watching 90210?”

  “I told you—”

  Jay was about to take a bite of his Turtles Pie when a hand clamped on his shoulder, spinning him around. There, leering over him, were seven senior boys. Jay knew them well. They wore Big Dogs and Stüssy shirts under loose flannels, Blazers and Mariners hats spun backward. They were the Johns.

  “Yeah. Tell us about 90210.”

  In all, there were fourteen boys named John at Bickleton High. All of them were on the baseball team. In fact, they were the baseball team. It was an odd phenomenon in Bickleton that unless your name was John—or, with one exception, Jeremy—you didn’t make the team. Jay used to curse his fate that he was born only three letters away from making the baseball team. Because if you didn’t make the team, you didn’t date the Ambers, Gretchens, or Lizzes, and you didn’t land a mansion on the bluff.

  The baseball team, called the Bickleton Vandals, was the biggest deal in Bickleton. Its fan base seemed to grow every year, filling the bleachers of even their practices. Millworkers flocked to their scrimmages, drinking and shouting as if they were at the World Series. Even though the team never actually played any games. They never got on a bus to play the rival towns of Klickitat, Cougar, and Battleground because someone was always sick, or injured, or it “just wasn’t the right time.” Yet this one seemingly critical fact was lost on the town’s enthusiasm.

  Jeremy McKraken took point in front of the Johns. He always took point. He was the Vandals’ first basemen and team captain. He was not tall, but he was broad, with a broad face, a thick brow now crinkled in anger, and wide blue eyes. The girls called him Bickleton’s Luke Perry, and he dated Liz Knight. Now, he nodded at Jay, doing his best Donnie Wahlberg impression.

  “Also . . . give us those pies.”

  Jay’s heart pounded. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

  “Knock it off, Jeremy. You don’t know the Ninja Turtles.”

  Jeremy grabbed Jay by the shirt.

  “Who says?”

  Behind him, Jay heard the Johns snickering. “Nice jeans, bugle boy.”

  Jeremy’s face was inches from Jay’s. “I love the Ninja Turtles.”

  Jay squirmed. “Oh yeah? What are their names?”

  “Brian. Dennis. Mike. Carl.”

  “That sounds like the Beach Boys.”

  Jeremy pulled Jay off his feet and threw him across the floor. The surrounding students burst into laughter and formed a circle around them. Amid the sea of faces, Jay saw Liz, Amber, and Gretchen watching. His face burned crimson as a deep, familiar bubble of anger roiled in his stomach. He looked helplessly to Colin, silently pleading with him. Colin looked away, his face red with shame. Jeremy chuckled.

  “If I say the Turtle’s name is Brian, it’s Brian.”

  He grabbed the Turtles Pie out of Jay’s hand and took a bite. Jay hauled himself up, trying to muster his fury. He crossed his arms.

  “Leave me alone, Jeremy. It’s my birthday.”

  Jeremy’s mouth stopped, mid-chew. His eyes went even wider. The Johns’ heads swiveled over, grinning, eager with anticipation.

  Jeremy burst into laughter. Pudding flew from his mouth, spattering Jay’s face. Jeremy was doubled over now, hands on his knees. He was laughing so hard, tears formed under his eyes.

  “Happy birthday.”

  The Johns roared.

  “How old are you, twelve?”

  “You look like Macaulay Culkin.”

  Jay stood frozen. Something in his brain switched. Without thinking, he charged Jeremy. The blow took Jeremy by surprise, knocking him over. Jay was dimly aware that the laughter had stopped around him. Wrapped in a sea of limbs, he hurled his fists as hard as he could into Jeremy’s chest, not caring how they landed, just wanting to hurt him.

  Then blows began to hit his own body. He had the vague thought that he was being punched, and then a fist slammed into his face, and his vision went white. The weight atop him shifted, and a thick arm grabbed his throat. He choked, eyes watering, gasping. The other background voices began to fade.

  In what felt like the far distance, a droll man’s voice spoke:

  “Gentlemen, let’s save the wrestling for gym class, shall we?”

  The arm around his throat relaxed. Jay fell to the floor, coughing, vision flooding back. He saw Principal Oatman looking down at him, his face as expressionless as the faded brown suit he wore every day. He was leaning over Jay, his stupid pocket square dangling out. He sighed.

  “So . . . who wants to tell me the story?”

  Before Jay could catch his breath, Jeremy blurted: “It was self-defense! We were just joking around and the dude went ballistic. He’s a real head case. I think he might be thrashed on weed.”

  Principal Oatman turned his monotone gaze back to Jay. “That true, Mr. Banksman? You thrashed?”

  Jay shook his head, standing and wiping pudding out of his eyes. “He stole our Turtles Pies!”

  Mr. Oatman addressed the crowd. “Who threw the first punch?”

  Everyone but Colin pointed at Jay. Mr. Oatman nodded.

  “Right. Go see Miss Molouski.”

  “What!?” Jay stomped his foot. “What about him?”

  Principal Oatman simply shrugged. “What about him?”

  The first bell rang, and students slipped to class. Jeremy turned to go with the Johns, giving Jay one last nasty smile. Jay watched them leave, grumbling.

  Mr. Oatman snorted. “Sorry, Banksman. That’s life.”

  Guidance

  Jay rapped his knuckles on the thin wooden door.

  “Come in,” Ms. Molouski’s voice croaked. Jay pushed at the door and the faint sound of music grew louder. George Michael’s voice struggled out of a tiny desktop speaker.

  Behind her desk, Ms. Molouski stood with a broom and dustpan. Jay saw she looked thinner and more tired than usual. As the school’s sole guidance counselor, it was her job to filter out all the school’s behavioral issues, making her essentially Bick
leton’s liver. And she was failing spectacularly.

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise at Jay’s face as he limped into her office.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Jeremy McKraken.”

  She nodded and strode over to a mini fridge, pulled out a pack of frozen peas, and handed them to Jay, who clamped them on his face.

  “That’s my last pack of peas, so please steer clear of Jeremy for a bit, huh?”

  Jay pressed the frozen peas to his forehead, soothing the ache around his eye.

  “I love how everyone keeps telling me to avoid him. Like it’s my fault I got beat up.”

  Ms. Molouski returned her attention to the shards of glass that ringed a water stain and some scattered flowers on her floor. Jay watched the pieces work their way into the carpet as she tried to sweep them.

  “Want me to get the vacuum?” Jay offered.

  “Nah.” She gave up on the glass shards. “Vacuum broke three weeks ago. No budget to order a new one.”

  Jay knew she was surprised to see him. He was a kid with no disciplinary history. When he came to visit her, which he had a few times the year before, it was for real advice. Not that he’d gotten anything that helpful. Now, she puffed her hollow cheeks as she straightened, dumping her half-full dustpan into the trash can.

  The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, though the window behind Ms. Molouski’s desk was open, and a spinning fan flooded the room with unseasonably frigid air. There was a faint trail of smoke coming from the ashtray on her desk, which was full of cigarette butts. The only contrast to her drab gray walls were the small splashes of goldenrod file organizers.

  “So what can I do for you?” she asked as she closed her office door to the lonely, empty hallway.

  Jay took an uncomfortable folding chair across from her desk.

  “Ask Principal Oatman. I think he’s hoping you can give me guidance on how not to get beat up by Jeremy.”

  “Ha!” She cackled. “That’s easy. What were you doing in A-Court?”

  “Yeah,” Jay muttered, “think I’d have learned that one by now. Also, since I’m here . . .”

  Ms. Molouski braced herself.

  “What am I going to do if I don’t even get a waitlist?”

  Ms. Molouski shook her head.

  “Jay, we’ve been through this. You’re not getting into college.”

  “Miss Rotchkey disagrees.”

  Ms. Molouski grimaced at the name.

  “Yeah, well, forgive me, but I’m not holding my breath that her little experiment produces us a college grad.”

  “She says this is the year. She says if we had better than a 3.5 and ace our SATs, we oughta be able to crack a state school. And community colleges legally can’t turn us—”

  Ms. Molouski sighed. “Jay. Hon. We have a zero percent college admissions rate at this school. Zero. Percent. A diploma here is worth less than the paper it’s printed on.”

  “That is insane!” Jay retorted.

  “I know it. You know it. Doesn’t change a thing. Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I tell every kid who comes in here asking about college. You did all the right things, and you’re still going nowhere. That’s life in Bickleton. Some kids in the world may be born lucky, but they sure ain’t born here.”

  Jay made to interrupt, but she held up a hand.

  “Want my advice? Kiss McKraken’s ass. Get a decent job down at the mill. You’re smart. Capable. Work hard, do right by the Johns, you’ll be able to buy your own house. Then, if you are lucky, and wind up at Kay’s bar at just the right moment, you can knock up a pretty girl, and in eighteen years I’ll be having this same conversation with your kid.”

  She gave Jay a thin smile.

  “What if I just leave?”

  She chuckled. “There’s the door.”

  Jay rose and muttered through gritted teeth, “Thanks.”

  He stopped at the door and turned.

  “You know, I don’t think I’m asking too much. I’m waitlisted at six schools. Four state schools, two community colleges. And those community colleges have to accept me.”

  Ms. Molouski’s chair squeaked, and now she, too, was standing, unsteadily, hands gripping her desk for support. For the first time, Jay saw a small sparkle of life peer out of her sad basset hound eyes.

  “You probably won’t believe this, but I was your age once. I’ve been in this town a long time, and I hate to see good kids get their hopes up.”

  “Isn’t that your job? To help us achieve our dreams?”

  “No, my job is to help you figure out your options.”

  “But you just told me I didn’t have any options. That my only option is to kiss Jeremy’s ass just to get a job at the mill!”

  She shrugged. “Welcome to Bickleton.”

  Tutorial

  Jay eased the Tutorial classroom door shut, trying to slip in unnoticed. Instead, the door clicked loudly, and a roomful of eyes turned to stare. Ms. Rotchkey paused her lesson, hovering over her desk, big owl eyes looking at Jay from behind thick glasses. The silence of the room was overwhelming.

  “It’s not my fault I’m late!” Jay protested. “I got jumped by Jeremy—tell her, Colin, I—”

  Ms. Rotchkey’s gnarled claws tapped out a beat on her wooden desk.

  “And a-one, and a-two and—”

  The classroom broke into a rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

  Jay blushed, bringing the frozen peas down from his swollen eye, lopsided grin beaming at the class.

  “Aw. You guys—”

  “I told them,” Colin blurted.

  Tutorial sat above the rest of Bickleton High, an island in the surrounding pines, technically one of the “portables,” though it was secluded from the other math labs. If you were a student and seeker of enlightenment, this one small room held pretty much your only hope of a real education in Bickleton. Ms. Rotchkey had founded Tutorial as a school within a school, a place where kids who wanted to learn, could. Mr. Oatman had given her autonomy, and she had lured kids like Jay and Colin to her classroom with the promise of a single word. College. She had helped the lot of them through admissions guidelines and SAT prep to achieve a goal that had eluded Bickleton for as long as anyone could remember.

  Now, the two dozen desks sat mostly empty, as students instead enjoyed beanbags and overstuffed armchairs against the side walls. Bohemian lamps bathed the interior in comfortable orange, and oak bookshelves filled the walls with thrilling titles like Notes from Underground, A Confederacy of Dunces, Diary of a Drug Fiend, and Labyrinths. The Johns or Liz never set foot in Tutorial, but if they had, Jay was certain even they would deign the room cool.

  Shayna, a tall drama girl, eyed Jay’s face as he moved toward his desk. “What happened to you?”

  “Made a play for some pies.”

  A second girl gasped. “You went to A-Court?”

  “Yeah.” Jay glanced angrily at Colin. “Without backup.”

  Colin looked sheepish. “All the Johns were there.”

  Ms. Rotchkey tsked. “You guys make it sound like a war zone.”

  “It is a war zone, Miss Rotchkey. You don’t know, you never leave this room.”

  “You never leave this room,” Ms. Rotchkey retorted.

  “Today I did and look what happened?!”

  Marlene, a young Latina, leaned in. “What happened?”

  “Well, I got jumped, didn’t I? I had to fight ’em off all by myself because this guy”—Jay jerked his thumb at Colin—“is apparently to delicate to . . .” He glanced around, noticing something.

  The desk behind his friend was empty. “Where’s Todd? He was the one talking up those pies.”

  Ms. Rotchkey tapped an attendance list. “Didn’t make it in.”

  “Huh.” Jay frowned. “He was so proud of
his attendance. Hate to see a man’s dreams squashed.”

  But Jay’s attention was already diverted to the class computer. An IBM PS/2, which was Bickleton’s only computer, as far as Jay knew. Ms. Rotchkey had secured it by threatening to make public the $10,000 Mr. Oatman had recently paid for new baseball equipment. Mr. Oatman suspected the town would take his side in that battle, but gave in anyway.

  The IBM PS/2 was Jay’s everything. He loved browsing Microsoft Encarta, the six-CD encyclopedias that came with the purchase. He loved watching the tiny pixelated movie clips on Cinemania. And more than anything, he loved the games. Duke Nukem. Wolfenstein 3D. Scorched Earth. King’s Quest VI. Monkey Island 2. And especially the world-building games: games like SimCity 2000 and Populous. Jay could get lost in those worlds for hours, building small towns and civilizations, adjusting budgets, responding to natural disasters. He ordered by mail every world-building game that came out. Then he would tote them back and forth to Tutorial, squeezing in spare hours wherever he could.

  Currently, Jay was building a pixel-perfect re-creation of Bickleton inside SimCity 2000. In fact, he’d pitched Ms. Rotchkey on letting him use first period for independent study to pursue his passion in city planning. SimCity 2000 was not a game, he argued, but a stepping stone into college.

  The reconstruction—which Jay nicknamed Poopville—was thorough. He’d even borrowed a topographic map from the library, landscaping the peaks around the Skookullom River into perfect mirrors of the original. He’d sculpted the main street of businesses, a high school, even a police department next to the city park. He’d landscaped out individual blocks (as best he could) to represent the houses of Bickleton.

  Jay loved it. He loved imagining Colin and Stevie in their homes, loved watching their cars leave in the morning to go to work. He loved thinking of Jeremy’s and the Johns’ homes. Sometimes, after a particularly bad run-in with the Johns, he would release a fire on their virtual houses and imagine the Johns screaming inside. Then he would carefully rebuild their houses, his compulsion for order outweighing his desire for revenge. SimCity 2000 gave him a sense of control he never found elsewhere in his life.