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Freshman

By Michael Gerber

Hyperion Books

Copyright © 2007 Michael Gerber
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786838516

Chapter One

HART TOOK a lot of late-night walks over the next few months. His safety schools admitted Hart immediately, but he didn't want to go to any of those places. He wanted to go to Stutts, and Stutts was notorious for taking its time. Hart's interviewer, a pompous, flatulent attorney, told him that the Stutts experience began with waiting to see if you had gotten in. "Anything that excruciating," the interviewer said with a wan smile, "has got to build character."

Hart's midnight strolls yielded a surprising amount of entertainment: people strolling past picture windows buck-naked, classmates making out in lurching, steamed-up cars. Things got nutty late at night. So he wasn't too shocked when a big black limousine gave a short honk and pulled up beside him.

Hart turned off his headphones and prepared to give directions. A tinted window slid down, revealing a pudgy guy with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a toothpick in his mouth. He looked like the Buddha gone bad. "Hart Fox?"

"Yeah?"

"Lean down so I can look at you." The driver checked Hart against a blowup of his yearbook photo.

It was a terrible picture. Not only was Hart wearing his emergency glasses (he'd ripped a contact that morning), but there was a bright-red constellation of pimples sprayed across his forehead. And his hair looked like he'd combed it with an eggbeater. "Let me guess: you're scheduling retakes."

"They told me you liked to talk nonsense," the driver said, "but you can quit, 'cause I ain't listenin'." He unlocked the doors. "Get in."

Stranger danger! Hart's hindbrain flashed, and he found himself on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, Hart was naturally friendly, almost pathologically so. On the other, he firmly believed that things like serial killers, cannibalism, and human sacrifice were more common than everybody supposed. Resigned to become a statistic, he got in; he'd been trained to respect his elders, and like all ambitious people, Hart had a strong attraction to limousines.

"Who told you I liked to talk nonsense?" When the driver didn't answer, Hart checked out the bar compartment. "Where's the booze?"

"Up here with me," the driver said. "You're underage."

"I thought limousines were like international waters or something." The only answer that came was the sound of the driver taking a swig.

As they drove, Hart got more and more anxious. Not only was he in a car driven by a complete stranger, but that stranger wouldn't answer any of his questions! And was drinking. And wouldn't give him any!

"This is outrageous," Hart said indignantly. "I would like, in fact I demand, a beer."

"No beer up here. Just hard stuff. And you're not getting any."

"It's totally illogical that I can fight and even die for my country, but some creep who picks me up in a limo, can't give me a-"

"Kid: shut up," the driver explained.

"But in Europe-"

"I'm not listening. Shut up and go to sleep."

Hart saw his point. It was 1:30 in the morning, and he was sleepy. He got sleepy every time he was anxious-how was that for an idiotic evolutionary mechanism? To zonk out whenever the saber-toothed tigers showed up? True to his ancestors, Hart drifted off. Sometime later, from far, far away, Hart heard a voice say: "Wake up, kid. We're almost there."

Hart shifted position, a spindle of drool dropping from his lip.

"Hey! Don't you drool on my upholstery!" The driver shook his head bitterly. "You're annoying even when you're asleep."

Hart sat up. "I wasn't sleeping. I was just resting my eyes," he mumbled, sitting up. No one in Hart's family ever admitted falling asleep. Farting, sure-masturbation, even. But falling asleep, never. It was a point of honor.

Hart groggily rubbed the condensation off his window. It was still pitch-black, and a heavy snow had begun to fall. Great, Hart thought. Now it'll be easy to hide my body. Why had he gotten into the car? Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, Hart repeated his silent mantra. What had he been thinking? Self-laceration was also a Fox family tradition-winners don't avoid criticism, they beat everyone else to it. This strategy took constant vigilance ... and still he screwed things up. Hart looked down at his jeans. At least he didn't have morning wood; the Erection Fairy was still asleep. Good. It would suck to die with a boner.

Hart miserably scanned the predawn murk for other cars, but all he saw was an armadillo crouched on the shoulder of the road. Hart conjured up a whole story involving a pet armadillo trying to find its way from Indiana to Texas-with a winning lottery ticket in its mouth, and just forty-eight hours to cash it-when he blinked and saw that it was just a curled scrap of blown-out tire. Too bad, Hart thought. He liked the armadillo better.

This happened all the time; faulty vision and a strong imagination conspired to keep Hart trapped in a very different, often alarming world. It always-or almost always-resolved into boring normalcy after a squint, but this constant double-taking kept Hart willing to accept the bizarre, and go along with it, too. Like getting into mysterious limos, for example.

As a hawk attempted to land on the hood of the car (no, wait, it was just a plastic bag) they turned off the expressway and into a bleak, urban neighborhood. Hart smelled the stench of death in the air, not realizing that Gary, Indiana, always smells like that.

Hart racked his brain for who might want to kill him. Nobody came to mind; with all the AP-level classes and college-attracting extracurriculars, there simply wasn't much time to make enemies. Abduction/murder wasn't Doreen's style-much too "tacky," to use her favorite put-down. Weird Abigail had a crush on him, and she'd be just the kind to go all Fatal Attraction without them ever having dated. But Hart knew her parents had told her to stop playing "Magic" for money, so it was highly doubtful she could've scraped together the cash for a hit man and a limousine.

The only real possibility was Steve of Meed, the guy who sold pot under the football bleachers during lunch. Steve of Meed had hated Hart ever since Hart had made a crack about his shirt in front of some girls. Now that he was about to pay for the joke with his life, Hart was bitter; it wasn't his fault that Led Zeppelin was a cliche. Steve of Meed-the guy too baked to wear shoes with laces-was a drug lord. You do learn something new every day, Hart concluded glumly. The trick is to keep it from killing you.

The limo turned at the next light, into an even more ruined part of town. Hart's money was on his head, hands, and torso being dumped in three separate locations, to delay identification. There'd be one piece in Lake Michigan, one in a vacant lot somewhere, and one back home (in his locker maybe?), to serve as a warning to others. Hart knew how it was done; he'd seen the cop shows.

They slowed and cruised down a side street. This is it, Hart thought, lying back on the seat and placing the sole of his sneaker on the window, getting ready to break it out. Then he saw the sign:

DARLING CONSTRUCTION WELCOMES YOU! THE REV. DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB OPENING 2008-APPLICATIONS BEING ACCEPTED WE HAVE A DREAM ... THE FINEST GOLF COURSE IN AMERICA

Relief poured over Hart...