Stand-Off Read Online Free PDF

West? Is that you?”
    Mr. Bream combed his mustache with his index finger. He always did the same thing when he was angry: two strokes on each side, then a final swipe on the right.
    â€œYes, sir,” I confessed.
    â€œDid I read the housing assignments correctly? That you’re on floor one with a freshman roommate?” Mr. Bream asked.
    I gave Annie a pained look, like I’d just been kicked in the balls, which is a look I have had quite a bit of experience with.
    I sighed. “Yes.”
    â€œDid you get in trouble again?”
    I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know why they did this to me.”
    Mr. Bream combed his mustache again. Five times. Then he pointed his flashlight at the center of my chest. “I don’t agree with putting a senior on floor one, so you just better know I’m keeping an eye on you.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAll right. Well, you two can say good night and run along.”
    And Mr. Bream just stood there watching me and Annie.
    Annie said, “See you in class tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I’d better run along, Annie.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK.
    What twelfth-grade boy on the planet goes to bed at nine o’clock at night?
    Ryan Dean West does, that’s who.
    I grudgingly dragged my feet back to Unit 113, which was my new home away from anywhere I cared about; and one that came equipped with a built-in Sam Abernathy. I thought about going upstairs and hanging out at Seanie and JP’s, maybe watching some television with them, but I didn’t really feel like they’d want me around. I could only hope that the Abernathy larva was such a bigger loser than me that he’d already be fast asleep, so I wouldn’t have to talk to him or listen to him or look at him or anything else with him for that matter.
    No such luck.
    When I got back to my— ugh! — our room, the Abernathy was awake, sitting up under the covers in his Super Mario bed with the lights off and the television on. Also, I might add, once again our window, and the door to our pint-size bathroom ( our! ) were both fully open—and didn’t Sam Abernathy know about the dark guy who’d been standing outside the window all day watching me?
    It was freezing cold.
    I didn’t bring a television to Pine Mountain. I had a microwaveoven. To me, watching the illuminated countdown of LED numbers when you’re zapping instant mac and cheese was just about as thrilling as looking at most television programs. The Abernathy had taken it upon himself to bring a notebook-paper-size flatscreen TV, which he placed on top of our one and only book/microwave oven shelf located along the wall at the foot of my Princess Snugglewarm child-size-extra-small bed. The Abernathy had to sit up in his bed to watch his TV due to the desks forming a kind of Maginot Line of defenses between Princess Snugglewarm and the Mario Bros.
    It was 130 square feet of hell, except that it was freezing cold.
    The other thing I noticed right away, besides the open goddamned window and the icicles that were forming on the sill—and Sam Abernathy’s pleading puppy-dog eyes staring at me as soon as I got through the door—was that, apparently, the Abernathy had taken it upon himself to very neatly fold and hang all the clothes I’d strewn around the Ryan Dean West half of our divided state. That was gross. I did not want the Abernathy to ever touch my socks and underwear.
    Did I mention it was cold?
    Seriously, my breath fogged the moment I entered my ( our ) room.

    â€œHi, Ryan Dean.”
    Okay. Let me make this clear right now: Sam Abernathy was the kind of kid that human beings instantly like. He was as cute as a laundry hamper filled with beagle puppies and cotton balls, and he was just so goddamned nice all the time.
    But what did I care about that? I’d already decided I was not going to like or be nice to Sam Abernathy,