Out of Order
A. M. Jenkins
To Alix and Steve,
for putting my future back into my hands
Contents
Week One
Chapter One
A Graceless Day
Chapter Two
Whipped
Week Two
Chapter Three
Balls of Steel
Chapter Four
The Suckometer Bottoms Out
Week Three
Chapter Five
Cold, Cold Paws
Chapter Six
Keeping It All Under Control
Week Four
Chapter Seven
Just a Little Bit Crooked
Chapter Eight
Colt Trammel, That’s Who
Week Five
Chapter Nine
He Died Slowly, Coughing Up Blood
Chapter Ten
No Matter How Hard You Try
Chapter Eleven
Not Quite the End
Chapter Twelve
One of the Other Million People in the World
Week Six
Chapter Thirteen
What I Know
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by A. M. Jenkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
WEEK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
A Graceless Day
I’m in a bad mood, walking into first-period biology. If I had my books, I’d slam them on the lab table.
But I don’t have them. They’re in the bottom of my locker where I left them. I don’t feel like doing any work today.
I slump down in my seat. I fold my arms over my chest. I don’t laugh or talk to anybody, and everybody who has eyes can see not to mess with me.
I don’t have a lab partner. Eddie DiCicco used to be it, but after I got caught copying off one of his labs, Ms. Keller moved him. Now I sit alone, which means every time we have a test, I’ve got to write all the answers down myself, on a cheat sheet.
I hate Ms. Keller.
The bell rings. Everybody’s already in place, because Ms. Keller counts you tardy if you’re not in your seat when the bell rings. Everybody’s getting their books out, because Ms. Keller makes you read a couple pages while she’s checking the roll.
It takes her about two seconds to see that I’m not reading. “Colt. Where’s your book?”
“I don’t have it.” If she’ll give me a pass to my locker, I might just take a detour and not come back for a while. I’m not in the mood for looking at plant cells today.
Ms. Keller doesn’t say anything about a pass. Instead she makes a mark in her grade book. It’s a zero, for not coming to class prepared.
She doesn’t offer to let me use one of the extras in her desk. I guess I get to read the assignment for homework.
Fuck her, anyway.
She starts writing the day’s assignment on the overhead. I’ve got nothing to read, so I have to just sit and wait. That’s supposed to be more punishment. It could be punishment, if I start thinking about how I blew it with Grace last night.
Better get my mind on something else. I lean back to balance my chair on two legs, almost to the point of falling. I try to think about anything besides you-know-who.
Baseball. I’m very good at baseball. Baseball is the only part of my life I have any control over. Baseball is the only reason I’m still in school.
Problem: I’m not out on the field. I’m in here. There’s no way you can think about baseball when your body’s trapped on a hard chair in a quiet room, and you can’t move at all. When you can’t feel the shock of the bat running up your arm into your shoulder. When you can’t feel the whump! of the ball in your glove.
When the girl you’ve been in love with since seventh grade walked off mad, and as usual she’s going to stay that way till you crawl like a dog.
But God, I’m so crazy about her. I want everybody to say “ColtandGrace” the way they say “RomeoandJuliet” or “RickyandLucy.”
I remember middle school, when Grace and I had seventh-grade social studies together, and I’d be sitting two desks back and one desk over. And I remember whenever we had to write an essay, instead of working on my essay, I’d sit and watch Grace write. She always wore this tiny little bracelet, so thin and gold I could have snapped it with my breath. And her arm would be moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth over the paper, and all these ideas would be flowing down through her hand and pouring out the pen, so smooth, with no effort, and it made me not ever want to pick up my goddamn pen again.
And if the sun was just right, coming in the windows, I could see tiny golden soft hairs on her forearm. And sometimes she’d turn her head and stare off to the side, out the window, and I could almost see all those ideas rolling around in there, inside that head.
I’m thinking about this, and I’m even almost forgetting I’m in biology, when the classroom door opens. A person—a girl, probably, though it’s not easy to tell—comes in. She’s got green hair. Or partly; about three or four inches of roots are regular hair color. But the rest is definitely green. It’s parted in the middle, and cut straight on the bottom, just below her chin. If it wasn’t for those unmistakable boobs under the sweat jacket, she could be a skinny, underdeveloped guy.
Everybody’s reading silently. Ms. Keller sits at her desk, checking off the roll. Her eyes flick over me, tilted back in my chair. She’s given up trying to get me to stop doing that—now she’s just hoping I’ll fall so she can say I told you so.
Sorry, not gonna happen.
The girl gives Ms. Keller a white slip. Ms. Keller reaches into the big bottom drawer of her desk and hands the girl a textbook.
Oh, sure. I get a zero, but this chick gets a book.
“Take that seat right there,” Ms. Keller says.
She’s pointing at the seat next to me.
“You can share your book with Colt. He seems to have forgotten his this morning.”
The girl tucks the book under her arm—just like a guy—and heads my way. She’s wearing running shoes and boys’ jeans, and when she unzips her sweat jacket, I see she’s got on a Hawaiian shirt, only instead of flowers it’s got cats doing the hula all over it.
I hate weird people. And poor people and sick people, for that matter. They all give me a bad feeling, like This Could Be You Instead of Me.
The girl ties her sweat jacket around her waist and sits beside me. She glances at the page numbers on the board and opens her book. She slides the book halfway between us without bothering to look up.
I don’t even pretend to lean over and read.
Why do people think they can dress any way they want? Don’t they see that they’re outsiders for a reason? That they bring it on themselves by not being and dressing and acting within the rules? Don’t they know there’s an order to things, and once you step out of the order, you’re fair game? Instead all you get is whining about how they’re picked on. Shit, if they’re that stupid, they deserve to get picked on, is all I’ve got to say.
Like Alicia Doggett, who sits across the room. One thing you can say about Alicia is that she knows where she stands. She’s like a chihuahua cringing and blinking its way around the school, so you don’t notice her unless you’re really, really bored. She’d drop dead from fear or joy if she had to share a book with Colt Trammel.
But this new girl doesn’t know who I am, and she’s dressed like the roofers that reshingled our house after the last hailstorm. And she strolled down the aisle like it doesn’t even matter.
I’ve got to tell you, that whole attitude sends smart-ass remarks boiling up my throat.
The girl turns a page without even checking to see
if I’m done reading it.
The door opens a crack, and Ms. Keller gets called to the door by some unknown loser. So when she’s standing in the doorway talking, I ask the girl next to me, “What happened to your hair?” And I stare at it, like something alive just crawled out.
She just gives me this look, like I’m an idiot.
“So,” I say, conversational. “You must be from Greenland.”
“And you must be from Uranus,” she says, in a you’re-an-idiot voice. She doesn’t know who I am—she’s new and she doesn’t know girls with bad dye jobs and stupid clothes can’t talk back to people like me.
I’ll teach her. “I gotta ask you something,” I add. “Be honest, now. You are a girl, aren’t you?”
“Screw you,” Greenland says, under her breath.
“You wish,” I tell her.
“No way,” she shoots back. “I prefer men, not dickless little boys.”
“Honey, I’ll show you a dick,” I say. “I’ll show you a dick times ten.” I reach for my belt, like I’m really going to whip it out right in biology.
She makes a big show of propping her elbow on the lab table and staring at my fly, like she can’t wait for me to exhibit my one-eyed general.
I’m kind of stuck. I’ve gone too far again. I don’t want to back down, but I can’t really pull it out in the middle of class, either.
I don’t look around. That would be uncool. I keep my eyes on her face, and I reach for my belt. She’s really zeroed in on my crotch. I feel a little uncomfortable, having a girl stare at it like she’s expecting some kind of performing poodle.
Nice and easy, I slide the end of my belt through the leather loop. Then—snap! I pop it open, so the metal prong is pointing right at her.
She just smirks. Like, go ahead—I dare you.
I dart a glance around. Behind us Haley Turner is looking on the way my sister watches surgeons cut people’s heads open on PBS. Her lab partner, Michael McMillan, is grinning. He really thinks I’m going to do it.
Am I? I don’t know. It’d go down in history. It’d be remembered years from now, when the proms and football games are nothing but pictures in the yearbook. The year Colt Trammel paraded his prick in sophomore biology.
Greenland is still waiting, watching. Yeah, she’s smirking now, but what’s she going to do if I really go through with it? Scream? Call Ms. Keller? Sue the school district? Have me arrested?
Better yet, maybe she’ll ask to be moved to a different seat.
I slip the leather end completely out of the buckle. I pull it wide open. I can feel myself smirking back at her.
I think I’m going to do it.
“Colton Trammel,” calls Ms. Keller. “We’re on page thirty-seven. You want to join us?”
Greenland and I both look up.
My chance for glory is gone. I scoot my chair up and try to figure out where we are on the page.
“Read the boxed comments out loud for us please, Colt,” Ms. Keller says. “Corinne, help him find the place.”
Greenland/Corinne points to a bunch of words boxed in by a black line.
“Chulrofile,” I begin.
“Chlorophyll,” corrects Ms. Keller.
“Chlorophyll is the green pig-ment found in the…”
“Chloroplasts,” says Ms. Keller.
“…of plant cells,” I finish. Deep breath. Next sentence.
Greenland is leaning to read over my arm, chin on her hand, her green hair curling slightly against her fingers. I can feel my open belt, under the table. I can’t take the time now to fasten it up. When I’m reading, it always takes all my concentration not to stumble over the words. Even more so today, what with the near flashing and all. Plus, I didn’t sleep so good last night.
Not after what happened with Grace.
“I love you,” I whispered against her neck.
We were in my car, in a parking lot, and things were getting pretty heavy, so heavy that I swear I was about to pass out from breathing too fast, because my face was buried in her hair, and I could smell her, just Grace, her shampoo, lotion, whatever it is, a smell no one would ever know unless he had his face against her like I did, and for the first time one of my hands was actually working its way under her skirt without any interference. Grace was allowing it. And that’s why I couldn’t stand it anymore and said, “I love you.”
And that’s when her hands stopped moving in my hair. “You what?”
I knew I’d done something wrong.
But how could “I love you” be wrong?
I tried again. I held perfectly still and said it again. Only it came out as a question. “I love you?”
She didn’t move either. But when she spoke, her voice was like an icy street, where you’d better drive slow if you don’t want to end up in a ditch. “You’ve never said that before.”
“So?” I asked.
As soon as it came out, I knew it was wrong. So? Definitely not in the spirit of the moment.
“So now you love me. Not when we’re sitting and talking. Just when you think you’re going to get something out of it.”
Now I understood. We were in the front seat of my car, and after months—months!—I was about to get somewhere. Anything would have been the wrong thing to say.
Even “I love you.”
I tried again, anyway. “But I do love you.”
Bzzzzzzt. Wrong answer.
Grace pushed me away and scrambled to sit up. “You don’t love me. You don’t even understand me.” She pulled her skirt down. “If you did, you wouldn’t have lied the other day about how much you liked my poem.”
“Oh, God,” I said, and fell back to my side of the car. “Not again! Not now!”
“You love me—right! If you loved me, you’d know how important my writing is to me, and you wouldn’t have lied about it.” She tugged the front of her blouse back into place. “All that bull about how you treasured my poem. I saw how much you treasured it! You used it for a coaster!”
I banged my forehead on the steering wheel a couple of times. No point in answering.
She slid her hands up underneath her shirt, and I knew she was putting her bra back where it belonged, doing it all out of sight, so I couldn’t see.
“You just want me to put out,” she muttered.
“No.” I said it out loud. I was going to make this work. “I mean it,” I told her. “I do want you to put out, but I also love you.” The whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for Grace. “I’ve always loved you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” I spilled it all, for the first time ever. Which left me feeling barefoot surrounded by broken glass.
“Stop saying that.” Grace reached inside her neckline to adjust something. Then she sat back. Grace always has a lot of words, the right words, there at her fingertips. “Take me home,” she ordered.
Go figure, a girl getting mad because you say you love her.
But she didn’t say that she didn’t want to see me anymore.
Not yet.
And we’d been down this road before. I always manage to tiptoe back. I’m a bad habit that Grace can’t quite kick. Always trying to make myself into a good habit, so she won’t want to kick me.
“Okay,” I whispered—funny how your voice shakes when you know one more single wrong word could blow your whole world away.
I’d never driven so carefully in my life. I’d just laid myself out at her feet. She knew everything. Almost.
And all the way to her house I was thinking, maybe if I tell her that, too, she’ll understand that I really do love her.
Or maybe she wouldn’t believe that, either.
When I got to her house, I stopped the engine. Before I could even move, she was out the door and heading up the sidewalk.
I got out anyway. I didn’t follow her, I just stood looking over the car, resting my elbows on the roof, watching to see that she made it to the door.
Her strappy little sandals made angry slaps on the concrete. I w
as probably the only person in the world who noticed she had her toenails painted pink. Her calves were bare—I knew her legs were bare, though they were only a blurry dark movement under the gauze of her skirt, against the porch light.
“Hey,” I tried, calling out so suddenly that it surprised my vocal cords and came out as a croak. “You’re right. I’m a liar. I don’t love you. Okay?”
It didn’t fix anything. She didn’t look around. Didn’t say anything, either. The front door wasn’t locked—she just opened it and walked in. She didn’t slam it but shut it firmly.
“See you tomorrow,” I whispered, even though I knew that nobody could hear me. Because tomorrow I’d work hard and get her to soften up and give me one of those smiles that flashed the message for the whole world to see:
Colton Trammel is somebody special.
I waited, elbows resting on the car roof, until I made sure she got in okay. And when the door shut behind her, I pounded the roof with my fist: one, two, three. Just to get under control enough to crawl back in the car and drive off, so I didn’t go up and knock on her front door and say something stupid like the rest of the truth. That I, Colt Trammel, Studly Hombre, have never gone all the way. Right up to the edge, but I’ve never tasted the whole tuna taco.
Because I’ve always wanted Grace to be my first.
When you’re in love with somebody and they’re mad at you, two things happen. One is that every second hurts. If you weren’t in love, you never would have noticed these seconds passing, but now you can feel every single miserable one of them, like you ate some bad chicken enchiladas at a Tex-Mex buffet.
The second thing is that you are being pulled against your will toward the person you love, like a moth to a bug zapper. For example, even though I haven’t seen her all day, I know exactly where Grace is, and I can feel every inch of space between us trying to get smaller.
Out of Order Page 1
