by Eric Bell
That night, after dinner, I grab my new sketchbook, and I start my cretpoj.
TWENTY-TWO
The mid-October sun peeks through the clouds when I wake up Friday morning. Big Green dances through my blinds, and if I search hard enough I can see the traces of red and yellow and orange on the tips of the leaves. My sketchbook sits on my desk, its first page now taken up with the outline of the most awe-inspiring, gravity-defying, throat-screeching cretpoj known to man.
“Alan!” Mom calls from downstairs.
Shoot. I’ll miss the bus if I don’t hurry. I head down to the breakfast table, and sitting there with a cup of coffee is Dad. The morning paper lies by him, unread. He sips his coffee and stares off into space.
When I’m done inhaling my bowl of Lucky Charms, Mom motions me over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. It makes me feel . . . fuller. Warmer. Stronger. Like there’s a mini sun inside my chest. A simple cross, the one she wore to the company dinner, hangs around her neck. She smiles again as I head out the door.
“Alan.”
Dad’s voice stops me.
Without looking up, Dad says, “Today, do your best.”
My breath catches in my throat. I don’t reply.
Dad picks up his paper and takes another sip of coffee. Maybe he doesn’t realize this is the first time he’s ever actually wished me well in anything.
But maybe he does.
Maybe I’m not the only one learning to swim.
I walk outside, my steps almost in rhythm with the wooden clock, into the sun.
At Evergreen, there’s still an Alan quarantine going on. Most kids don’t want to get near me or even look at me, which you’d think might make me happy. Don’t get me wrong: introverts like me can always use a little more peace and quiet, but I wish it didn’t come with a price.
Oh well. I’d rather have a hard time being myself than an easy time being somebody else. Wise words, those.
When I get to homeroom, I hear, “Hey.” Surprise, surprise, it’s Ron, walking toward me with a menacing sneer. “What’s up, homo? Been dreaming about my friend lately?”
I look up at Ron. “I don’t have to answer that.”
Ron laughs really loudly, making people stop and stare. “Oh, you don’t, huh? If I ever see you talk to Connor again, or try to turn him into a gay little piece of crap like you, I’ll—”
“He can talk to me if he wants,” Connor says, walking up behind me.
I turn bright red.
Ron looks like he stepped in something and it’s slowly seeping up his pants leg. “What are you talking about? Why would you—”
“Because Alan’s cool,” Connor says. “So lay off him, okay? You know I’ll cream you in a fight, so don’t even act like you’re some tough guy. Leave him alone. All right?”
Ron scowls. He raises both hands and walks into his homeroom.
I look at Connor. He’s not smiling. “I—I—” I stammer.
“I don’t like you,” Connor says. “Okay? I’m not into . . . that. I like girls.”
“Okay,” I say slowly.
He continues, “But I don’t care what you like to do or who you crush on—though I guess I’d be happier if it wasn’t, y’know, me.” Now he smiles a little.
I don’t return his smile. “It’s not my fault.”
Connor sighs. “I guess it’s not. I’m sorry for being a jerk. I shouldn’t have called Ron gay the other day. But you know we can’t ever, like, uh, date and stuff, right? Cause I like girls, and you’re, y’know, not a girl?”
“I know,” I say, still finding this whole conversation a little surreal. “I guess I’ll get over you eventually.”
Connor makes a fist like he’s going to playfully punch me on the arm, but he stops shy of my sleeve, and he walks into homeroom without saying anything else. I let the heat from his hand wash over me and I shiver a little, and the tightness in my chest expands.
In homeroom, Miss Richter takes roll. Talia isn’t in her seat. From across the room and in the seat next to me, Madison and Zack both give me thumbs-ups. I return with a whopping thumb of my own.
Principal Dorset comes on the loudspeaker for the morning announcements. After the usual boring junk, he says, “I would like to introduce Sapling Class President Talia MacDonald, who proposed a new initiative to me yesterday. Talia?”
“Thank you, Principal Dorset,” Talia says. Her voice is clear and confident, I guess because she can’t see any of her audience this time. “One of my goals as class president was to bring competitive drive back to Evergreen. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized maybe we were already competing too much. Maybe we need to be cooperating more instead.”
Me, Zack, and Madison all grin.
Talia continues, “In tribute to my class president debate, I’ve titled this project ‘Where Do We Come From?’”
(That was Zack’s idea. Madison also thought it’d be a good way to get people more sympathetic to the idea.)
“Every student at Evergreen shares a diverse experience,” Talia says. “Whether it’s race or gender, body shape or hair color, family status or sexual orientation—”
(everyone in homeroom looks at me)
“—we’re all different. But we also forget we’re similar too. Kids have been teased and bullied for such small things, when we all share the same story. One thing I’ve learned is sometimes it takes a portrait of someone’s life to really understand who they are. It’s my hope that ‘Where Do We Come From?’ will be a great way to talk about our differences in a way that encourages discussion and openness. Anyone can contribute art, essays, videos, and many more outlets for display in the hall. We’re all different, but we’re also all similar. I hope this project helps people realize that. Thank you very much.”
Miss Richter claps loudly, and even though most of the people in the room don’t join in, Madison yells, “Hear, hear,” and Zack gives a standing ovation and whistles. In the other seat next to me, Connor looks over at me for a bit and eventually gives me a big smile. I give one right back.
After all, I’m not the only person in the world who can make a cretpoj.
At the end of homeroom, Miss Richter calls me over. I rummage around in my bag for her extendable pointer, which I didn’t want to give back to her right away yesterday, but she shakes her head. “You keep it,” she says. “A little souvenir. Besides, I’m not sure I’d want to use it anymore after it got all gummed up.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I heard you passed the swimming test.”
I nod.
“Well, good job. I’m proud of you, but I hope more than anything you’re proud of yourself.”
“I am.”
Miss Richter looks at me and smiles. “You look happier today. Like you threw up a giant slug that was infesting your belly.”
I make a face. “Gross.”
“I try,” Miss Richter says. “The rest of seventh grade beckons. What’s next for Alan Cole?”
What’s next? “I’d like to finish learning the periodic table, I guess. Maybe study more verbs—”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know. Can I get back to you?”
She smiles. “It’s okay to not know. What matters is that you keep looking. Never stop looking.”
I smile too. “Thanks.” I pause. “For everything.”
Miss Richter sips her coffee.
As I leave homeroom, I realize the business with Ron made me forget to get stuff out of my locker, so I walk over there. That’s when I see him. In the midst of loud crowds and empty vending machines, he walks toward me, head down, hands in his pockets. I let him approach.
“You won,” Nathan says.
“Huh?”
We’re almost the same height, Nathan and me. He looks me in the eyes. “You won. Six to five. The game’s over. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Oh my God. I guess I did win, but . . . “Nathan, you don’t have to—”
“Just tell me what favor you want me to do. That’s your prize for winning. I always keep my promises. Especially after . . . after last night.” His voice wavers. “Go ahead. Say whatever you want. I’ll do it.”
I haven’t thought about this at all. Even when I pulled ahead in points yesterday, I never gave it any thought. How can I ask anything of Nathan? How can I—
No. There is something. “Okay.”
He winces, awaiting his judgment. His punishment.
“My favor I’m asking,” I say, “is for you to not become like Dad.”
“What?”
“You said the favor can’t involve anything that would harm you. So here it is. Don’t ever become like Dad. Use your smarts for good. Don’t let darkness take you over. Even if Dad changes, don’t be like how he was. That’s my wish.”
“I can’t do that,” Nathan says, trembling, looking down again.
“You have to,” I say. “You always keep your promises, right?”
Nathan squeezes his hands into fists.
“Nathan,” I say, “you can do it.”
My brother raises his head, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes. “You’re really something else, you know that?” he asks me. “You little punk.”
I don’t move.
He extends his hand. “Just keep me in line if I lose it.”
The lava inside my gut evaporates. Not all of it, but a lot of it, so much that I break into a wide, cheek-to-cheek grin. I shake Nathan’s hand. “You’ve got a deal.”
Nathan nods. “Maybe you’re not such a bad guy after all, Alan.”
“—so the moose says to the cow, ‘Hey buddy, get off my lawn!’” Zack chuckles, pounding his fist on the Unstable Table. “Hoo boy, that was a good one.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Madison says after he swallows a big bite of kale. “My next project. Now that Alan is up to snuff in swimming class.”
“Are you going to teach people how to balance a checkbook?” Zack asks. “Mine always falls off the tightrope.”
Madison blinks. “Now that I’ve proven I can do something on my own, I can focus on self-improvement.”
“Like losing fifteen pounds by the end of the month?” Zack asks.
Madison makes a sour face. “I’ll need to discuss that with my parents.”
A kid walks by the Unstable Table and says, “Hey, Fatison.”
Madison crosses his arms. “What’s your name?”
The kid stops walking. “Uh, George.”
“My name is Madison Wilson Truman. I took the trouble to learn your name, George, so the least you could do is learn mine.”
The kid hovers awkwardly around our table for a bit, then leaves.
Zack grins. “That was awesome.”
I smile. “Yeah. And you don’t have to take me to Helen’s Crest anymore, so you won’t have any excuse to be there.”
“Actually,” Madison says, “if you want my honest opinion, I’d like you to go with me, so I do have an excuse. That way it won’t be quite so bad.”
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds fun. Maybe we can do something else instead of swimming.”
“Hey, there’s Penny,” Zack yells. “Hi, Penny!”
From a few tables down, Penny moves her head in a motion that perfectly syncs up with an eye roll.
“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” I say.
Zack nods. “It’s okay. There’ll be other girls. And other guys.” He gives me a wink.
I glance over at the Stable Table, thinking about the one CvC task I didn’t complete.
“Even losers don’t have to lose all the time,” Zack says. “Whatever happens down the road—good and bad—we’ll face it together.”
“Yes,” Madison says. “You don’t have to worry about that, Alan.”
I smile. “I’m not worried. I’m not worried at all.”
The noise of the cafeteria, all the chatter and the clutter, all of it fades away as Madison, Zack, and I place our thumbs in the center of the Unstable Table. We’re losers. But we’ll never lose what really counts.
At my desk in my bedroom there sits a little mirror. Next to the mirror is my sketchbook, with paints and pencils aligned in rows. Inside the mirror there’s a face, a face with long black hair and bright eyes. No shadowy fire in that face. No dark flames scorching the edges.
I brush the hair out of my eyes and capture myself inside my cretpoj, a goldfish becoming a man.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Joy McCullough-Carranza, my mentor in the 2015 Pitch Wars contest, for your keen editorial eye, for nurturing me at all levels of development, and for believing no question I asked was too small or too stupid. Thank you to Pitch Wars mentors Rebecca Wells, Jessica Vitalis, and Brooks Benjamin for feedback, support, and confidence boosts. Thank you to Brenda Drake and her team of dedicated mentors for making dreams possible.
Thank you to Brent Taylor, my agent, for endless encouragement, unwavering faith, and our shared commitment to the message behind the book—you believe in Alan just as much as I do. Thank you to Uwe Stender for being a huge advocate for me and my work.
Thank you to Ben Rosenthal, my editor at Katherine Tegen Books, for excellent editorial feedback and for welcoming my input at all levels. Thank you to Julia Kuo for a brilliant and evocative cover. Thank you to Mabel Hsu and the rest of the staff at HarperCollins for all your tireless work on the book and for inviting me to peer behind the mystical curtain of publishing. Thank you to Katherine Tegen for trusting in Alan and trusting in me.
Thank you to the Bux-Mont Critique Group—Wendy Greenley, Tamara C. Gureghian, Jean Ladden, Joanne Alburger, Debbie Dadey, and Melissa McDaniel—for helping shape the manuscript from its earliest stages with honest critiquing and warm encouragement.
Thank you to Rachel Kobin for helping me get on my feet, both professionally and personally, and for inspiring me to reclaim my authorial voice. Thank you to my friends and fellow writers at the Philadelphia Writers Workshop for helping me grow in my journey as a writer. Thank you to Michael Lynch for inspiring the title of this book.
Thank you to the Barn Raisers—Connie Morby, Kristen Strocchia, Lilace Guignard, and Marcia Gregorio—for insightful feedback and for helping the earliest versions of Alan, Zack, and Madison take shape.
Thank you to my beta readers and trusted writing buddies: Stephen Kittel, Parag S. Gohel, Louis R. Artfich, Eric Jenkins, and Solim and Glenn Chung.
Thank you to my trusted sources of inspiration who helped me with ideas: David Labe, Alan Huan Chang, Brett Finnicum, Andreana Lau, Rafael A. Mora Moreu, Jessica Choi, Margie Hammett, Richie George, Summer Heacock, and Jennifer Norman.
And thank you for inviting me—and Alan—into your world. My world is a little bit brighter every time someone reads my book, and I can only hope yours brightens every time you read it too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Jon Perlmutter
ERIC BELL lives and writes in Pennsylvania. He was once in middle school. He survived. You will too. Alan Cole Is Not a Coward is his debut novel. You can find him online at www.iamericbell.com.
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CREDITS
Cover art by JULIA KUO
Cover design by AURORA PARLAGRECO
COPYRIGHT
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
ALAN COLE IS NOT A COWARD. Copyright © 2017 by Eric Bell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-256702-4
EPub Edition © August 2017 ISBN 9780062567055
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FIRST EDITION
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