Gabe Johnson Takes Over Read Online Free PDF Page A

last day of school because clearly he had better things to do than deliver his best friend. That means something when you’ve decided to go to war.
    I walked home. I cut through the school’s playing fields and launched my last ever Code Red onto the track. It fizzled for a couple seconds and then died.
    As I trudged through town, a little song established itself in my head, something like this: What’s a boy like me gonna do to fight? Who to beat to win victory? My eagle wings will take flight. I’ll rain death and misery—
    Yeah, that’s a bad song, sir. I sang it over and over.
    I also thought about RC III, this dude who moved to Minnekota last fall. That guy’s a fighter and also he doesn’t treat me like an idiot. He was this superstar all-star Mr. Football and Basketball down in the Twin Cities the year before. But his dad—he’s a lawyer who used to play for the Vikings—is working on that giant murder trial over in Green Lake, so RC III had to move here.
    Right. Of course you’ve heard of him.
    What a shock to his system, right? City schools and big shopping malls and all the movies you’d ever want to see and sophistication and people of many colors and nationalities and then you’re here in the frozen lakes and bean fields with a bunch of blond kids staring at you like you’re from Planet Zorb? Didn’t seem to bother him at all.
    Yeah, RC III kicked everybody’s ass in the whole conference on the football field and the basketball court. It was a real joy to play my ’bone in the pep band this year because we actually won some games with RC III kicking ass like he did. What was really cool is that he didn’t try to blend into the jock culture at all. Didn’t try to become part of the school like that.
    The dude was in my gym class this spring. For whatever reason, I was the only one he ever talked to. We’d pair up for badminton every day (if I wasn’t orbiting or being kicked out of class).
    I’d say, “Don’t smash me in the shuttlecock.”
    He’d say, “I’m gonna smash your shuttlecock all over this gym, man.”
    Then he’d take it pretty easy on me and we’d whack the bird back and forth.
    A couple times, though, he’d make it hard and I did okay. After class one time, he said, “You’re pretty light on your feet for a big dude. You should get in shape and go out for football in the fall.”
    I said, “I’d rather stick a pencil in my eyeball than play sports with a bunch of skanky-assed cavemen.”
    A normal jock like Seth Sellers would kick my ass for saying that, sir. RC III just sort of giggled and hooted. Even though we never hung out after school or anything, we became buddies. He was always really happy to see me in the halls. I got him a summer job at Dante’s Donuts too.
    Yeah, I’m a good guy to know around here!
    As I neared my house, I thought about what RC III said, that I’m light on my feet. I used to be a swimmer (like Justin). I used to actually like gym.
    I thought, Maybe you can’t ever get skinny, but you don’t have to be a tub of turd either. This thought repeated itself. You’ve never been exactly skinny, but you weren’t a tub of turd. Come on. Come on. No more tub of turd. This thought gained some traction.
    Before I walked into the front door of our dirty house, I sat down on the front step and breathed. Rita Day, our neighbor lady who used to do yoga with my mom, popped out of her garage. She gave me a big smile and a wave and then bounced around the side of the house with a garden bag. She’s like sixty but jogs and is skinny and energetic to the point of being annoying. Grandpa’s that way too. Energetic. Annoying.
    I thought, That’s what I want.
    I thought, Bouncy-ass six-pack muscle-head Grandpa.
    I pushed myself up off the step and went in.
    â€œYou want what now?” Grandpa asked when I