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taught by Mr. Gray, who is every inch as exciting as his name suggests. You know the sound a lawn mower makes when someone’s cutting the grass about halfway down the block? Like: uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh ? That’s how Mr. Gray talks.
    So anyway, Mr. Gray was droning on in that uuuuuu–hhhhh voice about how some imaginary guy named John Smith took a job and received a three percent raise in salary every four years—which, by the way, sounded like a pretty crummy job to me. And the numbers and letters Mr. Gray was scrawling on the whiteboard were beginning to blur in front of my eyes into a single hazy shadow. And after a while I sort of turned and glanced out the window, hoping there might be an alien invasion or nuclear war or something distracting out there to keep me awake. And instead, far across the track field, I saw Jeff out by the bleachers with Wendy Inge. And to put it bluntly, Wendy Inge was hanging from his lips like a cigarette.
    Now, again, let me emphasize: Wendy Inge is not a girl I really want to know very well. In fact, she’s not someone I even want to stand very close to. All I’m saying is: she was a girl and she wasn’t being superpolite or formal or saying, “Oh, hello, Jeff,” like he was her maiden aunt. Nobody ever mistook Jeff for anybody’s maiden aunt.
    So sometimes I couldn’t help thinking: Hey, if I could learn to be just a little more like Jeff, then maybe people wouldn’t expect me to be so nice all the time. Maybe people would feel more relaxed around me. Maybe they could clown around with me like they do with everyone else. Maybe Zoe would laugh with me the way she laughs with Mark Sales .
    And that’s why, when Jeff Winger asked me if I wanted to be one of his friends—that’s why I said, “Sure. Okay.” Because I was thinking: Hey, maybe this is my chance. Maybe this is exactly what I need in my life. Maybe I can learn something important from these guys .
    Like I said: stupid. Very.

5

A Couple of Cars
     
    Here is what happened when we went into the barn—me, I mean, and Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac.
    Jeff led the way. Ed P. and Harry Mac followed. For another minute or so, I couldn’t do much but stand there by the Camaro, gripping my stomach and trying not to throw up. I was in pretty bad shape at this point. My gut hurt from Jeff punching me, my face hurt from Jeff slapping me, my hand hurt from having splinters in it, my shoulder hurt from falling on it when Harry Mac tripped me, and my lungs ached from running so hard. Plus I had a whole bunch of other assorted cuts and bruises to show for my afternoon’s adventures.
    More than that, my brain was kind of swirling. I knew it was not a good idea to be hanging around with these guys. But for the reasons I’ve already explained, I was kind of—I don’t know—curious about what was going to happen next. It was interesting. It was exciting. It was just the sort of thing a preacher’s kid wouldn’t do.
    So after another moment of recuperating and catching my breath, I straightened up and followed the three of them over the sandy driveway to the barn.
    Jeff was unlocking a padlock that held the barn’s big door closed. Then Ed P. took hold of the door and sort of walked it open. Inside, it was dark and shadowy.
    “Get her going,” said Jeff to Ed P.
    Ed P. squatted down just inside the door. I could see him yanking at something—the way you yank on the cord of a lawn mower or a motorboat. After a couple of yanks, I heard a gas engine rumble to life. I guessed what it was: a portable generator. Sure enough, a moment later some lights flickered on inside the barn.
    Jeff turned to me and grinned and made a grand gesture, sweeping his hand toward the barn as if to say: Enter a world of enchantment .
    Which I did.
    The first things I noticed inside the barn—the first things anyone would have noticed—were two cars. Very, very nice cars. Luxury cars, like something some of the richer people in town might have driven.