CHAPTER ONE The Clan of Kris

Kris Fort is a jerk. He's one of those people who have you constantly wondering what in the hell attracts girls to certain guys, because he's loud, obnoxious, gross... the basic ingredients that it takes to make a grade A jackass. I asked my friend Georgia once why Kris was so popular with the ladies. The answer she gave was amazingly shallow, if you know Georgia: "He's hott." Notice the double 't' thing. It's how everyone spells it now. Does that even remotely elevate my coolness?

Wait, why am I asking you that? And who are you, anyway? Right. Sorry.

So Georgia says, "He's hott." What? I'm shocked. I just sit there, staring at her with my jaw on the floor. He's hott? (Is that getting annoying? I'll spell it with one 't' from now on, in case it's bothering you.) What do you mean, hot? (See? No more double 't'.) I've known Georgia since kindergarten, and she's always been one of those girls that doesn't say "like" and "hot" and "totally" and all that east coast valley girl stuff. That's one of the things I like about her. She's not mainstream cool. She's cool, but in a very different way. Adult cool.

Or she was, until she says hot. I guess it makes sense, though. I didn't think the opposite sex fell for the guy on account of his I.Q. So Georgia's just stating the obvious: 'He's hot.' Right. Gotcha.

And why do I consider him to be a jerk (other than his shallow attractiveness and lack of brain power)? Because one of the many girls that's always clinging to him is Lillian Porter. You're probably thinking, 'So what? She's one of many!' Get ready, because the reason will blow your mind: I think she's hot. Yeah, I know that kind of goes against what I talked about in the last few paragraphs, about how someone's being hot is a shallow and stupid thing to be attracted to, but she is. Like, really hot. Like, wow-there-she-is-I've-gotta-do-something-with-my-hair-should-I-comb- it-to-the-right-or-the-left hot. That hot.

But then I look again and she's hanging on one of Kris Fort's pythons. (That's what he calls them, pythons. Not arms, but pythons. I guess that would make mine garter snakes, right?) So I stuff my comb back into the pocket of my corduroys and slam my locker shut. Happens all the time. Georgia's pretty much given up on me, so she just shakes her head and gives me a friendly pat on the back, which I don't appreciate. She might as well say, 'Dave, you don't have a chance in hell. But you have a good heart.' Gee, thanks.

So picture this. I'm doing my beginning-of-school ritual, gathering my books in as depressed a way as possible while Kris and his worshippers make their way down the hall. East Bishop Middle is pretty much identical to every other middle school in the US, with tiled floors and multicolored lockers lining the walls in a desperate attempt at cheeriness. The only real difference is that at approximately 8:00 AM, the Clan of Kris parades through the main hallway. The Jerk himself is at the center of the group, and at least five girls surround him ('Pathetic,' says Georgia). Taking up the rear is the rest of the basketball team. They're Kris' lackeys, guffawing stupidly and decking every undeserving nerd who's unfortunate enough to be in their way.

And guess who happens to be in their way on this fine Monday morning? Bingo. Moi. They've just rounded the corner, and I clench my teeth, spewing forth obscenities. Georgia rolls her eyes and stares at the wall. Normal, so far. But then the kid below me cautiously shuts his locker, and it catches on my shoelace. I lose my balance, then go head over heels onto the floor. Ouch. It feels like I just got an emergency brain transplant with a buzz saw, but then I realize I have bigger problems than my aching head. Kris and his posse, mainly. They're coming towards me fast, oblivious to the kid on the ground in front of them. I quickly scramble out of the way. But I'm not quick enough.

Bam! We collide. Kris and the group of girls are the first to join me on the floor, and the basketball team is next. For a moment I'm grinning at the look of anger on Mr. Amazing's face and the laughter of my peers, but then I feel two vice-like hands grasp me and lift me off the ground. "Hey!" I yell out, trying to escape from the death grip. Instead I find myself face to face with Reggie Daniels, Face Smasher Extraordinaire. This kid's huge. He's totally muscle-bound, with a small head set on top of massive shoulders. He can bench, like, 8,000, and he likes picking up petrified small people and throwing them against walls. Sounds fun, huh?

"Why you do that?" Reggie asks in his 'I'm stupid but I can still break you in half with my bare hands' voice. He seems to think that I purposefully threw myself into the path of one of the most dangerous people at school (Reggie's not one for logic). "I don't like people who do that." Who do what? Trip and fall? Get their laces caught in locker doors? Wear loafers and corduroys?

That's not what I say. "I'm sorry, Reggie. Really, I am! Can I call you Reggie? I can call you Mr. Daniels, Or Mr. Sir. have you read Holes, by Louis Sachar? There's a character in that called Mr. Sir. Of course, that's not his real name. (nervous laugh) I forget his real name. It sounds like a girl's name. (nervous laugh) not that I'm saying you sound like a girl! NO! You're too cool to be a girl! Not that girls aren't cool, it's just that it's not cool to be a girl when you're a guy, because guys are supposed to be guys! (nervous laugh) And I'm not questioning your guydom, really. Is that a word? I mean, it should be a word, reserved for guys like you, who are really guyish guys! Oh, there I go again with the guy words! (nervous laugh) Do you listen to Prairie Home Companion? Because there's a thing they do on that called "Guy Noir". It's a radio show! (nervous laugh) Because you couldn't really listen to the T.V. Well, you do, but you watch it, really! Like, you don't say, 'I listened to, um, Wrestlemania last night,' right? (nervous laugh) (nervous laugh) (nervous laugh) (nervous laugh)," is what I say.

Reggie grunts, then drops me. And considering the fact that he is six foot three, being dropped by Reggie is like base-jumping off of the Empire State Building without a parachute. Except you live long enough to endure the pain.

I black out for a second, and when I open my eyes there's an angel above me. She's smiling kindly and singing a lovely song. It goes: ". don't need to do this kind of stuff. He didn't mean to trip you." Muffled voices respond, off in the distance. The angel sings, "Yep. See you later, Kris." Huh? My eyes refocus, and I see that I am not in the presence of an angel, but someone of greater power. Not God. Not Allah. Not Jesus. Not Buddha. Not even that dude from the religion they practice in Japan! No, it's someone of even deeper holiness. Lillian Porter.

"Sorry about that," she says, still hovering. Earlier I said she was hot. Now I see that that's sacrilegious. Lillian Porter isn't hot, but beautiful. Glowing. And within spitting distance! (Maybe that isn't such a good phrase to use when writing about Lillian Porter. How about, 'within worshipping distance.' Or does that sound obsessive? Maybe it should be, 'within saying, 'Hi, Lillian! You're really nice and I really like you. Want to go out to the movies or something?' distance.' Yeah, that's about right.) I tune back in. "Reggie can be such a jerk sometimes." All the time, I think. She helps me up, and now we're standing right in front of each other. This is too great! "Are you OK?" she sings. 'I'm more than OK, baby. I'm with you.' Nope, too sleazy. 'Well, I think I broke my nail. Sob, sob!' Too whiny. This is like Goldilocks and the three responses to Lillian Porter's question! 'Yeah. Thanks for sticking around. You didn't have to do that, you know.' Juuuuuust right!

Except it comes out like this; "Yehuhhhhansorkinoundinhaffaooatoooaw." Oh, cool, Dave! We've got a surefire winner there! What a ladies' man!

"What?" She asks. Good question. What exactly did I just say? I could tell her that it means something cool and suave and nice in Swahili, but I doubt she'll buy that. I choose the second option- stare at her stupidly with drool running down my chin.

"What's going on out here?" I look around and notice Mr. Kidd standing outside of his classroom door. We find him in there almost every morning, curled up in his chair and snoring like a pig. Rumor has it he lives at school and eats the kids he has for detention, then hides in the janitor's closet during summer vacation. I'm not one to believe in rumors, but that one seems entirely possible.

The kids that are still in the hall scatter at the sight of Mr. Kid Eater. "I gotta go," says Lillian. "Bye."

"Beh," I manage. She walks away. I'm so stupid! I just completely ruined what could well be my only chance with Lillian Porter! IDIOT! IMBECILE! NIMROD! Why did I do that? Why, cruel fate? Why?

Georgia walks up to me and gives me a pat on the back. So now we're back to the pats on the back? That means I got nowhere, despite all the material I was given to work with. 'Dave, you don't have a chance in hell. But you have a good heart.'