Losers Read Online Free PDF Page A

I would sit, in complete and utter silence, until the bell rang.
    This was how, in one form or another, every class that day progressed. When at last the final bell rang, I ran outside, feeling my lungs fill up and balloon for the first time that day. The North Lawn grass was wet and turfy below my feet. A cappella gospel songs that I didn’t even know the words to were ringing in my head. Freedom had never felt so free.
    So why isn’t anyone else out here? I asked myself suddenly.
    There was a thin trickle of kids leaking from the building—nowhere near the Friday afternoon exodus you’d picture. A few kids were milling about on the Lawn, throwing Frisbees, eating their lunch. Lunch. Oh no—slowly, sickeningly, like my blood had turned to a giant vat of oil, realization swam through my body. It wasn’t the end of last period. It was the beginning.
    I ran into class, ten minutes late, face-to-face with thirty gaping students. My classmates. They were supposed to be on my side, but at the moment, they were all giving me a single, unified dirty look, like we’d all simultaneously arrived in Hell and I’d accidentally stood against the button that turned off the air-conditioning.
    Our teacher, Mr. Denisof, was scribbling away on the blackboard. Just then he finished the outline for the day’s work, turned around, and found me standing in the front of the class. His mustache twitched, trying to make sense of the scene that I’d suddenly stumbled into.
    â€œWhat’s your name, young man?” he asked, in that soft voice, either incredibly insightful or incredibly patronizing, that teachers seem so good at.
    â€œI’m sorry—” I managed to choke out.
    He looked at me sideways through the narrow lenses of his designer glasses. “I said, what’s your name?”
    Before I could reply, a voice called out, “That’s Jupiter Glazer.” I didn’t see who it was, and I was dumbfounded that anyone in the class knew my name at all.
    Mr. Denisof was already over at his desk, looking down the roll book. “Glazer, huh?” he said. “What seems to be the problem, then, Mister Glazer?”
    â€œI am trying to not make a problem—I’m trying for there to not be problem,” I stammered, trying to explain. “I can’t—I not—” My English was getting wavery, the way it always did when I got flustered. “I go sit now.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œPlease, I’m unable to—I’m not so eloquent—” My mouth moved quickly, in those foreign patterns of English words that I was suddenly totally unsure of how to pronounce. Did the I come before the can’t ? After? Was I not supposed to say I at all? I could feel myself second-guessing. From behind me, there came brief, scattered spouts of laughter, like a water fountain that was clogged by algae. I could feel myself reddening. I could feel my entire body starting to blush.
    Mr. Denisof was standing behind his desk, scribbling something quickly on a tablet of pale green paper. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. “Here,” he said, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately. “I want you to go to the office. The principal’s office. Do you know where that is?”
    Mutely, I hung my head. I hefted my massive bag of textbooks onto my back, plucked the note from his fingers, and left the room.
    The hall was totally empty, nobody lingering. By now, everyone was either in class or gone. There wasn’t even an echo of students talking from the classes; it was still too early in the period for class participation.
    Instinctively, the way every new student knows in their subconscious where to hang out and where to avoid, I found myself being drawn to the school office. The office was bustling, teachers standing around with coffee, office aides swarming the mailboxes, inserting copies of flyers for class announcements and