"Thank God. I nearly took Kennedy to the police station. For his own protection, not just because he's an idiot. Kid's getting dozens of hate texts. Could you ask the crew to call off the dogs, Felton? Kennedy's pretty broken up."

"Okay," I told him, but I didn't do anything. Not that I didn't feel for that jerk Ken Johnson (sorry). I just had other things on my mind. I did have presence of mind to tell Coach not to take his son to the police station because of Cody's dad.

I still had my normal life.

"I guess I know a lot of people," I told Aleah and Andrew after I hung up. "It's really weird to be talking to theseathese friends about my back, which isn't even that big a deal if you compare it to this whole Jerria" My phone buzzed again.

"Mr. Popular." Aleah raised her eyebrows at me.

"No. No. This is Grandma Berba, I think."

It was.

"I'll be in to Bluffton tonight very late. I had to book to Madison and then I'll drive a rental. Are you staying at the house tonight, Felton?"

"No."

"Good boy. Where will you be?"

I gave her Aleah's address.

"I'll be over in the morning," she said.

"Should I let Jerri know you're coming?"

"I've already spoken to her. She's well aware."

"Is she okay, Grandma?"

"No. She needs her mother. Took her to age thirty-five to figure it out."

When I got off the phone and relayed Grandma Berba's comments, Aleah's mouth dropped open.

"Your mom is thirty-five?" she said.

"I guess," I told her.

"Yes. Jerri turns thirty-six in October," Andrew said.

"But you turn sixteen next week, Felton."

"Yeah?"

"That means your mom was a teenager when she had you. She was just like a year out of high school."

"Whoa," I said. I'd never thought of it. I guess it hadn't meant anything to me before. But since I was turning sixteen, nineteen suddenly didn't seem that old.

"It's not like she was in eighth grade," Andrew said. "Nineteen is adult. Jerri has a good head on her shoulders too." Andrew trailed off as he realized what a dumb statement he was making relative to the current situation.

"She was a kid when she had me," I nodded. "Like I'm a kid right now."

"How old was your dad?" Aleah asked.

"He was thirty-four when he died," I said.

"You were five, right?"

"Yes."

"Hm," Aleah said. "He was way too old for your mom. That's a very bad power dynamic if you ask me. A thirty-year-old man with a teenager?"

"How is it a bad power dynamic?" Andrew asked, mouth full of chips.

"I'd like us to drop this conversation," I said. "I don't like it."

"Felton isn't interested in the truth," Andrew said to Aleah.

"That's not true," I said. "I'm afraid of the truth."

"Oh, that's much better," Aleah said.

The two of them moved on to another subject.

But I couldn't stop thinking of it. Jerri was a teenager when I was born. I imagined Abby Sauter pregnant with some thirty-year-old's baby. Messed up. Really, sincerely messed up.

Just then Ronald walked in from the garage.

"Looks like we got ourselves a house full of Reinstein!" he smiled.

"Andrew and Felton are going to stay with us," Aleah said.

The smile dropped right off his face. But after he found out Jerri was a teenager when she had me and she was crazy and Grandma Berba was on her way, he helped Andrew dig Gus's sleeping bags out of the crawl space above the hall (I couldn't help, as I'd cooled from the bike ride and was near paralyzed from Ken's assault).

It was a completely crazy hour with everything coming at me from every angle. Jerri, you understand, was a pregnant teenager with me in her belly. Meanwhile, the entire honky universe was buzzing, chattering, texting, calling. Jerri was almost the same age as these honkies when I was in her belly.

CHAPTER 47: BRAIN MASH: PART II.

Because it was Friday, Aleah didn't practice piano. She might as well have.

After dinner, Aleah, Andrew, and I sat in Gus's basement watching movies. Or not really movies. We watched Aleah's DVD recordings of the Metropolitan Opera, which I didn't get. But Aleah and Andrew completely get opera. They whooped and laughed and talked about orchestration and about Mozart and about singing in Italian and singing in German, and I sat there thinking about Jerri and her baby, who was me. Then Aleah kissed my cheek, told me to get some rest, turned off the light, and disappeared upstairs. After, Andrew said, "Aleah's really a wonderful person. You're very lucky." In like a minute, he began snoring. And I laid there, my eyeballs staring into the black night of the basement, thinking about Jerri and her baby, who was me.

Jerri wanted to be a civil rights lawyer when she was my age. That's what she told me. Clearly, I was the reason she wasn't a civil rights lawyer. Jerri was valedictorian of her high school class. I knew that from before. That's part of history she kept. Jerri stayed in Bluffton for college because her dad would only pay for it if she did. I knew this because once, freshman year, after taking it on the chin from the honkies all day, I asked her why in the name of squirrel nut hell did she decide to stay in Bluffton for college when she was so dang smart in high school?

"My father trapped me," she said. Now I knew this too: Jerri got pregnant with a professor's kid (me!) by like November of her first year of college. How the holy hell did that happen? How the holy hell did she meet, fall in love with, and marry a professor in just a couple of months? Then it dawned on me: Jerri wasn't married to Professor Reinstein at all. That's why she still had the last name Berba!

Even though my back hurt like freaking terror, I rolled over and shook Andrew awake.

"What?" he asked, sleepy.

"Jerri and Dad were never married," I whispered. "We're bastards. Do you understand?"

"No," Andrew said. "That's not true. I saw the wedding album, remember?"

"The wedding album had to be from something else. Jerri's last name is Berba."

"Yes. She kept her last name. But they were married."

"No, they weren't, Andrew. Stop kidding yourself."

"I saw the wedding announcement from the Bluffton Journal too. They had a spring wedding."

"Where did you get that?"

"Same place as the album. Way up in"a"Andrew yawneda""Jerri's closet."

"Oh," I said and started doing math. "Wait. Spring? That means Grandma Berba let Jerri marry a thirty-year-old when Jerri was still in high school. Grandma Berba must be totally crazy."

"No. I think you're wrong. The paper said Jerri was nineteen and Steven Reinstein was twenty-nine. She'd have been out of high school."

"But that's impossible, Andrew. That doesn't make sense. UnlessaOh my God."

"I'm so tired," Andrew said.

"Go to sleep," I told him. He was snoring again in seconds.

I laid there so awake. I'd figured it all out. It all made complete sense. The reason why I'm such a freak of naturea"growing all this hair all over, running so fast, gaining all this weighta"was so obvious. I was a super baby (yeah, right). It must have only taken me a few months to grow inside of Jerri (uh huh). I must have been full-sized in just a few months (oh my God).

It probably killed Jerri, me growing so fast inside of her. I was probably born with white shorts on, which is why she referred to me as a tennis player when she called me asshole. Maybe that's what killed Dad, having a freak of nature for a son. They got married, and right away, Jerri was pregnant, and I was huge in her belly. I bet I was terrifying, especially for a little, kind Jewish fellow who only liked poetry. A tennis-playing baby? Come on! If only he'd stuck around while I didn't grow all those years and became squirrel nuts. He would've breathed easy then. Professor Reinstein would've recognized squirrel nuts. Maybe he'd just be killing himself now because now I'm a super baby again. It probably took everything out of Jerri, having a super baby. She must've lost all will to be a lawyer. I'm a curse. Stupid super baby grows too fast. Poor Jerri.

Are you kidding? Are you even listening to yourself? Didn't you hear Andrew say he looked like you?

That's the last thing I remember thinking before I fell asleep.

My brain was completely mashed.

CHAPTER 48: BRAIN MASH: PART III.

Aleah shook me awake. Light was coming in from the high basement windows. It was morning.

"Felton. Felton. Wake up."

"Whuh?" I asked.

"You didn't set an alarm. We've got to do your paper route. It's past seven."

"Oh, shit!" I sat straight up. My back hurt but not that much. My back didn't really hurt. "Wow. I'm not paralyzed," I said to Aleah.

"That's good."

"It only makes sense," I said. "I'm a super baby. I must heal fast."

"What?"

From upstairs, I could hear piano playing. Andrew wasn't at my side.

"Is Andrew playing piano?"

"Yes. He's very good."

"Oh, that's good. That's really good."

"Paper route!" Aleah shouted.

"Oh, shit!"

I pushed my way out of the sleeping bag and ran upstairs, with Aleah right behind me. I'd slept in shorts and a shirt. I was decent. I could go out that way. We ran into the living room. Ronald sat there reading a magazine ("Don't have my paper yet. Ha ha"). Andrew played piano. I bent over to pull on my shoes. "Owww." My back did hurt a bit.

Andrew swiveled around and looked at me.

"They were married, so we're not bastards," Andrew said.

"Duh. I know that," I said.

Then Aleah and I were out the door.

"Well, maybe you are," Andrew called after us.

Ha. Andrew. He's funny.

Aleah and I biked to the pickup station. My paper stack was the last one left. Then I realized I hadn't brought my paper bag from home.

"Oh, shit!" I shouted.