Giggling from RACHEL and ANNA.

NAOMI.

pretending not to understand the giggling WHAT?! HE'S ALWAYS TRYING TO LOOK DOWN MY SHIRT.

More giggling. GREG is also politely trying to giggle and failing.

NAOMI.

IT'S LIKE: TAKE A PICTURE, MR. CUBALY, IT'LL LAST LONGER.

ANNA.

pretending to be horrified Naomi-i-i-i-i-i!!

All of a sudden everyone is looking at Greg to see what he thinks of all this.

GREG.

deciding that the safest option is simply to summarize what has been said thus far Uh . . . Takin' a picture of some b.o.o.bs. Cubaly style.

NAOMI.

UGGGGGH. BOYS ARE SUCH PERVERTS. GREG, CAN YOU THINK ABOUT JUST ONE THING OTHER THAN s.e.x.

ENTIRE HALLWAY'S WORTH OF STUDENTS Greg, we are all making a note of your playful bantering friendship with this loud obnoxious person.

So yeah, my hard-earned social invisibility definitely was taking something of a hit. I even made the mistake one afternoon of agreeing to have lunch with Rachel and her friends in the cafeteria, a place I hadn't set foot in for years.

The cafeteria is chaos. First of all, it's in a perpetual state of low-level food fight. It's rarely violent enough for the security guards to get involved, but at any given time, someone is attempting to whip a piece of food or condiment at someone else from close range, and half of the time they miss and hit someone else in a different part of the cafeteria. So it's like one of the more chill battles of World War II.

Second of all, the food every single day is pizza and Tater Tots. Sometimes to mix things up they put little gray p.o.o.p-like nuggets of sausage on the pizza, but that's as much variation as there is. Also, a lot of food ends up on the cafeteria floor, and both pizza and Tater Tots get very slippery when stepped on. There's also a lot of dried Pepsi down there, which is sticky and therefore easy to walk on but somehow even more disgusting.

Finally, the cafeteria is extremely crowded, meaning if you accidentally slip on a slick of pizza cheese and mashed-up Tater Tots, you will probably be trampled to death.

Basically, it's like a low-security state prison.

And so I had to sit there with my backpack perched awkwardly on my lap, because you do not want your backpack down there under the table acc.u.mulating greasy food stains and families of insects, and I was eating my weird but probably healthful lunch that Dad had packed because if I ate pizza and Tater Tots every day I would be even more overweight and my face would have a pimple somewhere the size of a human eyeball. And Naomi was loudly talking about how Ross Said Something Ignorant and I Was Like Don't Even Go There, and I was attempting to listen politely and probably had some kind of dumb smile or grimace on my face. And that's the state I was in when Madison Hartner came over to sit with us.

So in case you don't remember, Madison Hartner is the insanely hot girl who probably dates one of the Pittsburgh Steelers or at least a college student or something. She's also the girl that I relentlessly antagonized in the fifth grade, with the Madison Fartner nickname, the Booger ChapStick accusation, etc. That's all water under the bridge now, of course, and in October of senior year, we were on vaguely friendly terms with each other. We would say hi to each other in the hall sometimes, and maybe I would even make some kind of bland inoffensive joke, and she would smile or something, and I would daydream for a couple of seconds about nuzzling my face in her b.o.o.bs like an affectionate panda cub, and then we would both get on with our lives.

Did I want to get with Madison? Yes. Of course I did. I would have given up a year of my life just to make out with her. Well, maybe a month. And obviously she would have to be doing it voluntarily. I'm not suggesting that some weird wish-granting genie would force her to make out with me in exchange for a month of my life. This entire paragraph is a moron.

Look: If you asked me, Greg, who do you have a crush on, the answer would be Madison. But most of the time I was able to not think about girls, because in high school guys like me are completely unable to get with the girls they actually want to get with, so there's no sense in dwelling on that like a pathetic idiot.

I asked Dad point-blank about girls in high school once and he said that, yeah, high school is impossible, but college is different and that once I get there I "should have no trouble making whoopie," which was embarra.s.sing but rea.s.suring at the same time. Then I asked Mom and she said I'm actually very handsome, and that statement immediately became Piece of Evidence #16087 in the case of Mom v. The Truth.

Anyway. Madison, a hot and almost universally popular girl, came strolling up to us and plunked her tray down next to Rachel's. Why did she choose to do this? Here, let me give you another long-winded explanation of something. I am like the Joseph Stalin of narrators.

There are two kinds of hot girls: Evil Hot Girls, and Hot Girls Who Are Also Sympathetic Good-Hearted People and Will Not Intentionally Destroy Your Life (HGWAASGHp.a.w.nIDYL). Olivia Ryan-the first girl in our cla.s.s to get a nose job-is definitely an Evil Hot Girl, which is why everyone is terrified of her. Periodically she will just randomly destroy someone's life. Occasionally it's because that person wrote something on Facebook like liv ryan is a btichhhh !!!! but most of the time, there's no reason for it. It's like a volcano suddenly erupted in someone's house and melted their flesh. At Benson, I would estimate that about 75 percent of hot girls are evil.

But Madison Hartner is not evil. Actually, she's like the president of the HGWAASGHp.a.w.nIDYL. The best evidence of this is Rachel. Madison and Rachel were, at best, distant acquaintances before Rachel got cancer, but when the cancer happened, this triggered Madison's Friend Hormones.

Let me also tell you that the problem with HGWAASGHp.a.w.nIDYL is, just because they're not intentionally out to destroy your life, doesn't mean they don't sometimes still destroy your life. They can't help it. They're like elephants, blithely roaming the jungle, occasionally stomping a chipmunk and not even noticing: hot, s.e.xy elephants.

Actually, Madison is a lot like Mom. She's obsessed with doing Good Deeds, and she's awesome at persuading people to do stuff. This is just an incredibly dangerous combination, as you will see later in this book, if I can even finish it without freaking out and throwing my laptop out of a moving car and into a pond.

All right. So Madison's leukemia-activated Friend Hormones had begun pumping through her system, and now she was showing her friendship by sitting with us during lunch.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked. She has this dark honeyed kind of wise-sounding voice, which doesn't quite fit how she looks. That is also hot. I feel like an a.s.sclown writing about how hot she is, so I'll stop.

"I DON'T THINK SO," said Naomi.

"Sit with us," said Rachel.

So she sat there. Naomi was being quiet. The balance of power had shifted in ways that none of us yet understood. There was tension in the air. It was a moment of great opportunity, and greater danger. The world was about to change forever. I had beef in my mouth.

"Greg, that looks like an interesting lunch," said Madison.

Lunch was leftover beef slices, bean sprouts, and lettuce in a plastic container. There was also teriyaki sauce and scallions and stuff. It basically looked like an alien came to earth and took a cla.s.s in salad-making but didn't do all that great on the final exam. Anyway, this was my opportunity, and I seized it.

"I already had lunch," I said. "This is the barf of a s.p.a.ce alien."

Rachel and Anna snorted, and Madison actually giggled a little bit. I did not have time to truly register the b.o.n.e.r-generating ramifications of that, because Naomi was clearly about to make a loud irritating attempt to reclaim the center of attention, and I had to prevent this at all costs.

"Yeah, for extra credit in Mr. McCarthy's cla.s.s, I'm doing a doc.u.mentary on the barfing habits of s.p.a.ce aliens. I follow them around with a camera, and I collect their barf in containers like this. You thought I was going to eat this? No way. Madison, you must think I'm perverted. I'm a barf historian, and you need to have some respect for that. That's why I have this beautiful specimen of barf in this container here. I'm going to do some research with it."

Naomi was periodically trying to cut in by bellowing "GROSS" and "YOU DID NOT JUST GO THERE," but to no avail. I was getting some momentum and had some decent laughs going, especially from Rachel, who at that point was the d.u.c.h.ess of Snortsylvania.

"I am not going to eat this precious barf. Let me explain something to you guys. When an alien barfs, it's a sign of trust. I have spent a ton of time with aliens, gaining their trust so that they can bestow their wondrous barf on me, and I am not about to sabotage that trust by eating the barf. Even though it looks nutritious and like it would taste awesome. Check it out. Look at these weird sperm-looking thingies. Do they make me want to just go to town on this barf? And eat it in my mouth? Obviously. But this is about trust. Next question. Rachel."

Rachel was helplessly snorting and honking away, so I knew if I gave her the opportunity to speak, it would let me reload a little bit without letting Naomi talk. I was also trying not to focus on the fact that I was making probably Benson's hottest girl laugh. This was easily the only time anything like this had ever happened.

"Where do you even find s.p.a.ce aliens," Rachel eventually managed to ask.

"Awesome question," I said. "s.p.a.ce aliens generally disguise themselves as people, but if you know what to look for, you can identify them pretty easily." I was sort of looking around the cafeteria for inspiration. For some reason I was focusing on Scott Mayhew, one of the Magic-card-playing gothy dorks from eighteen thousand words ago. He was wearing a trench coat and he was clumsily loping around with a school lunch tray.

"Aliens have an unusual fashion sense revolving around trench coats," I continued, "and they haven't really figured out how to use human legs to walk normally. Like, don't look now, but Scott Mayhew over there? Yeah. He is a textbook alien."

My heart was racing. On the one hand, I had just committed a cardinal sin of my whole way of being: Never make fun of anybody. Talking s.h.i.t on people is probably the easiest way to make friends and enemies in high school, or really anywhere, and as I have noted like a billion times, that is the opposite of my goal in life.

But on the other hand, I had three girls cracking up, and one of them was Madison, and another was Rachel, and I had to keep it going.

"You've probably seen Scott running around all weird and stuff, and you've thought to yourself, what is his deal. Well, he's from outer s.p.a.ce. His home is on some f.u.c.ked-up meteor or something. And it's taken a really long time for us to get to the level of trust where he'll let me carry around his barf. You don't even want to know how much alien poetry I've had to sit around and listen to. It's mostly about centaurs. And finally this morning after he read me some of his poetry, I was like, 'I'd like to thank you for that, that was really beautiful,' and then he was like, 'I'd like to honor you with my barf.' And that's when he barfed in this thing here. It's been a wild ride."

And then I shut up, because Scott had sort of stopped what he was doing and was staring at us from across the cafeteria. He can't have liked what he was seeing. Anna, Rachel, and Madison were all looking at him and laughing. And I was saying things with a big dumb grin on my face. He knew we were making fun of him. It was obvious. He gazed at me coldly and angrily.

"GREG, YOU'RE WEIRD AND GROSS," announced Naomi, stepping eagerly into the void.

"Greg, you're being mean," said Madison with a sweet smile on her face.

How the h.e.l.l was I going to get out of this. "No, no, no!" I yelled. "Naomi, alien barf is not gross. That's the whole point. It's rare and beautiful. And Madison, what I'm saying is not mean. It's like the opposite. I'm celebrating this magical bond that Scott and I have. With his barf. That I'm holding right now in this container."

But I was freaked out. I had temporarily lost control of myself and talked s.h.i.t on Scott Mayhew and made him probably hate me. And also now I had created a reputation for myself as a guy who talks s.h.i.t on people. I was so freaked out that I didn't even really say anything else until the bell rang for next period, and of course in the weeks to follow, I did not return to the cafeteria. I couldn't even think about eating lunch down there without my armpits getting all hot and p.r.i.c.kly.

Later, Rachel confided to me that Scott Mayhew had a big crush on Anna.

"Ohhh. That makes sense."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She's always reading books about centaurs and stuff."

"I think he's too weird for her."

"He's not that weird."

I was still feeling guilty and sensitive about the whole Scott thing.

"Greg, he's pretty weird. And his hair is gross."

"Well, he's not as weird as me."

"I guess you're the one making the s.p.a.ce alien barf doc.u.mentary."

"Yeah."

"Are your other films doc.u.mentaries?"

I think Rachel was trying to give me an opportunity to go on some open-ended riff about something here, but honestly I was too freaked out to really say anything. There was the Scott thing, and now there was Rachel bringing up my films, and I just didn't know what to do.

So I kind of just said, "Uhhhhh. Not really. Uh."

But fortunately Rachel understood what this meant.

"Sorry, I know they're secret. I shouldn't ask you about them."

"No, I'm being stupid."

"No you're not. It's important to you that they're secret. I don't want you to describe them to me."

I have to say this: In that moment, Rachel was awesome. Meanwhile, I guess I probably have to describe the films to you. You're being less awesome than Rachel, you stupid reader.

I mean, I'm the one who's deciding you have to read about them, so really it's me who is being a human p.o.o.p factory right now.

This should come as a surprise to no one.

This is obviously just a partial list.

Earl, the Wrath of G.o.d II (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2005). Yes, I know. The II makes no sense. It should have been either Aguirre, the Wrath of G.o.d II, or Earl, the Wrath of G.o.d I. Whatever. At the time, Earl, the Wrath of G.o.d II just seemed to work. Also, we were eleven. Give us a break.

Anyway, Earl's bravura performance as a psychotic fake-German-speaking Spanish conquistador was overshadowed by a near-total lack of plot, character development, intelligible dialogue, etc. In hindsight, we probably should have used less footage of Cat Stevens flipping out and attacking one of us. We also should have added subt.i.tles, because there is no way to tell what Earl is trying to say. "Ich haufen mit staufen ZAUFENSTEINNN," for example. It sounds great, but literally translated, it means "I pile/cl.u.s.ter/acc.u.mulation with [nonsense word] ALCOHOL-DRINKING-STONNNNE."

Ran II (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2006). We really stepped it up for Ran II, with costumes, a soundtrack, weaponry, and a plot that we actually sat and tried to write down beforehand. Here goes: An emperor and his sons are having dinner. One of the sons makes fun of the emperor. The emperor becomes enraged and kills his own court jester. The wife of one of the other sons runs in and announces that she has just gotten remarried to another emperor. She is noogied to death. The second emperor, meanwhile, lives in a bathroom and eats soap, and has a lengthy freak-out scene when a messenger tells him that his wife is dead. The messenger turns out to be the rebellious son; the rebellious son, however, then makes the mistake of walking under a tree, where a mysterious a.s.sa.s.sin is waiting with some toothpaste. The a.s.sa.s.sin and the first emperor chase each other through the forest for a while. This causes the second emperor to have an even longer freak-out scene. Eventually, he runs into the living room and commits Elbow-Forehead Suicide, while the for-some-reason-alive-again court jester sings a very loud nonsense song.

And that's when things get complicated.

Apocalypse Later (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2007). Again, not our best t.i.tle. Once we found out what the apocalypse was, we thought that it was ridiculous that Apocalypse Now was not, in fact, about the End of the World. This movie can best be summed up like this: 1. Earl, wearing a bandanna and holding a Super Soaker, demands to know when the apocalypse is happening.

2. Offscreen, I tell Earl that the apocalypse is not for a while.

3. Earl sits in a chair and does a lot of cussing.

4. Repeat.

Star Peaces (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2007). It's the year 2007 on planet Earth, not the future, and although he has an awesome name, Luke Crazy Bad-a.s.s is the lamest guy in his entire neighborhood. For example: His wallet contains nothing but pudding, and instead of wanting to make out with him, girls prefer to punch him in the stomach. Then he discovers two robots in a sandbox who tell him that he can move things with his mind. There is no evidence that this is true, but he tells everyone about it anyway, and when they ask him for a demonstration, he gets really angry and does the Robot Dance of Anger. At one point, he thinks that his bike is some kind of futuristic speeder and uses it to ride around Frick Park with a Super Soaker, making s.p.a.ce noises with his lips and attacking people that he thinks are storm troopers. Then the police show up, as in, real policemen who were not in the script but who were called up by an old lady we almost ran over. This turned out to be awesome, because we hadn't really written an ending.

h.e.l.lo, Good-Die (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2008). Breakthrough! This was the first of many of our films to use sock puppets. James Bondage, British superspy, wakes up in bed with a beautiful woman, who is secretly a sock puppet. We know that it's a secret from when James Bondage says, "The most beautiful thing about you is that you're not a sock puppet."

Cat-ablanca (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2008). The thing is, cats can't act.

2002 (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2009). We felt very liberated after watching 2001. If Aguirre, the Wrath of G.o.d taught us that the plot of a film doesn't need to have a happy ending, 2001 taught us that a film doesn't even need a plot in the first place, and a lot of its scenes can just be weird colors. Artistically, this is our most ambitious film, which also makes it the least fun to watch.

The Manchurian Cat-idate (dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2010). Not only can cats not act, they also hate wearing clothes.

All in all we made forty-two films, starting with Earl, the Wrath of G.o.d II. We had a ritual for when each film was finished: We would burn the film to two DVDs, erase the film on Dad's computer, and then I would take the raw footage out to the garbage behind our house while Earl smoked a cigarette. Mom usually watched disapprovingly while this happened-she thought we would want the footage for later, and also, while she tolerated the smoking, at the same time she wasn't exactly the biggest fan-but she let us do it, because we didn't give her a choice.

We didn't want anyone watching the films but us. No one. Not Mom and Dad; we knew we couldn't trust their opinions. Not our cla.s.smates; we didn't care about their opinions, not after the Aguirre, the Wrath of G.o.d fiasco. Also, it's not like we really were friends with any of them.

In Earl's case, the fact is that he just didn't give a s.h.i.t about making friends. I was the closest friend he had, and aside from making films, we didn't hang out all that much. In middle school he started spending a lot of time on his own; I didn't know where he went, but it wasn't his house or mine. There was a period where he was doing drugs, but I wasn't really privy to any of that. It didn't last very long, either; there were two movies that we did where he was sort of cracked out the whole time (Walk Lola Walk [2008], Gay.I. [2008]), and then pretty quickly he got himself together. By eighth grade, he had restricted himself to cigarettes. However, he remained a very solitary person, and there were weeks where I didn't see him at all.

And as for me: In middle school I just had a hard time making friends. I don't know why. If I knew why, it wouldn't have been so impossible. One thing was that I just usually wasn't interested in what other kids were interested in. For a lot of kids, it was sports or music, two things that I just couldn't really get into. Music really only interested me as a soundtrack to a movie, and as for sports, I mean, come on. It's some guys throwing some b.a.l.l.s around, or trying to knock each other over, and you're supposed to watch them for three hours at a time, and it just sort of seems like a waste. I dunno. I don't want to sound condescending, so I'm not going to say anything else, except that it is literally impossible to imagine a thing dumber than sports.