"Honkies are not the only problem," I shouted.

"What?" Jerri called from the garden.

I walked up and into the front door of the house, past Andrew plunking the piano like a robot, then down into the basement, where I called Peter's house. Mrs. Yang answered with her Chinese accent.

"Is Peter there?"

"No. He went with Mindy to play the game."

"The game, huh? You tell him Felton called."

"Okay."

"You tell him he's a damn jerk, okay?"

"Okay."

And then Mrs. Yang hung up.

That's right, Mrs. Yang. The truth hurts.

Then I didn't really know what to do with myself, with all my anger.

I turned on the TV, but nothing interesting was on. Then I got on my computer and emailed Gus: i got no use for peter yangs of world. no more peter yang. done. over. called his mom and canceled subscription.

It took Gus about two hours to respond: way to go. we two pees in potty. zero friends between us.

I don't need bad friends, Gus. You got that?

But by night, I felt really lonely, and the anger made me crazy.

CHAPTER 10: I'D NEVER SEEN ANYONE DO ANYTHING THAT WELL, NOT EVEN ANDREW.

In some ways, the night that followed the pool day was kind of like tonight. I am listening to music like I did then. I can't sleep (it is 2:13 a.m.!) like I couldn't that night. But I'm not thrashing around. I broke a bunch of shit in my room that night.

Yeah.

The morning after I told off Peter Yang's mom, I had a really hard time getting up for the paper route. Yeah, I'd spent the entire evening barricaded in my room, all emotional and homicidal, pacing, breaking old toys (poor Star Wars action figures), considering the things I had to do to feel good about the world or to destroy the world: get a driver's license, drive to Mexico, etc. (or fire bottle rockets and Roman candles at Ken Johnson in his stupid car).

I listened to my dad's old CDs. (Andrew found them in a box in a closet a couple years agoa"this was several years post-bonfire, and Jerri barely reacted to them.) Lots of Beatles but also some other stuff, like the Pixies and Nirvana and the Smiths and Sonic Youth and punk music like Minor Threat that nobody else even knows about really (except Jerri, of course, who said she never liked any of it). Andrew took all Dad's classical CDs. I got all the rock ones. And a lot of it is angry-sounding, and I was angry, a Gus-less wonder adrift and abused. I liked Sonic Youth. It's what Dad listened to in the Volvo after he ran up the Mound that time.

Jerri came to my closed door at some point in the night, knocked loud, asked me to turn down the music, then shouted "You all right in there?"

"Yes. Leave me alone."

"What's that music? You having bad thoughts?"

"No. Just need to be alone."

"I didn't meanaYou knowaI thought you'd want to know that Coach Johnson called."

"Who?"

"Coach Johnson called for you today, Felton."

"I don't care about any Johnson. I don't care about Coach. And I don't give a shit about his stupid son, okay?"

Jerri paused outside the door. I imagined her staring blankly at the wood.

"Umm, do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm listening to music here!" I shouted, then cranked up the tunes. I guess she went away.

Yes, the head football coach is Ken Johnson's dad.

Too much Johnson, man. Too much Johnson. "I'll pound all you Johnsons!" I shouted. Then I pounded on my chest. Why the hell do they think you want to play football? the voice in my head said. What a bunch of idiots! Sonic Youth exploded from my little computer speakers. I glared and clenched my fists and looked in the mirror.

It was truly exhausting to be so mad. Plus, I was awake until like 5 a.m. And, thus, I was really completely exhausted for the paper route the next morning. (I got up to go at 6:45a"not enough sleep!) I was very late delivering. I didn't get to Gus's house until almost 7:30.

The people who were living in there had the door open and the curtains were pulled. The living room had every light on, even though it was plenty light outside by that time, and the wood masks were staring out the window. I sort of zombie-walked up the stoop to drop the paper off. I heard a noise when I pulled the screen door open. And I couldn't help it, my exhaustion left me without my natural fleeing defenses, so I sort of popped my head in to see what the noise was.

The black girl in her white nightie was pulling herself up to Gus's piano.

Gus is a terrible piano player. Awful. He has no natural rhythm, and he is tone-deaf, and he can't see the keys very well because his hair wad is in his face. He bangs and shouts and makes me laugh until I have a headache and want him to stop.

This girl, who I now know so well, is not even slightly terrible. She's got great rhythm and knows how melodies should sound. In fact, she is completely amazing.

Stop. Listen to me. Completely utterly amazing.

I watched. She paused, drew in a deep breath, then just exploded onto the keys, exploded into this classical music thing, which I would not normally like, but oh my holy shit.

I stood there sort of tingling, I'm sure with my mouth hanging open, just staring at her like a total dork while she played. I recognized something in her. Maybe genius? The music was like a wave that hit me in Florida when we were visiting Dad's parents right before he died. The music made me kind of cry. I'm sort of crying now. Seriously. What a dork I am. This girl, who I love, used every bit of the length of both her arms going up and down the keys. Then I heard this deep voice say "Can I help you?"

I looked up, and there was this huge dad staring at me (Ronald).

"Um, yes. Paperboy," I mumbled.

"Aleah plays well, doesn't she?"

"Holy crap," I replied.

"Well put," he said.

And then I nodded, handed him the paper, turned, and took off like a stupid-ass jackrabbit.

She's so good. She's so good. She's so good.

I couldn't stop thinking about the girl in her nightie and her dad and being caught staring at her and how I was alone and how I can't play piano or anything.

You're just jumpy. That's all you are. Jumpy, jumpy, jumpy.

I tore through the rest of the route, hurtling off my bike, dropping papers off at houses, then to the nursing home. Inside, old ladies were out of their rooms, heading to breakfast because I was late, and they called to me: "Help!"

"Shut up, old ladies," I told them. "I've got nothing. You're just old."

CHAPTER 11: I FELT BETTER UNTIL JERRI DROPPED THE F-BOMB.

When I got home, Jerri was drinking coffee and reading an old magazine on the front stoop. It was already too hot out there, and she was sweating. It was obvious she was waiting for me. I tried to walk right past her, but she grabbed my arm and looked up into my eyes.

"You're getting home late," she said.

"Why did you make me take this stupid job?" I asked.

"Did it feel good to listen to your dad's music yesterday, Felton?"

I didn't answer immediately. I looked at her face, which was pale.

"Yes, it did."

"Sure brought back some memories for me," she said. "Not good memories."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You were listening to some pretty angry music."

"Yes."

"Do you ever wish you were with him, Felton?"

"With him? What are you talking about?"

"Somewhere not here?"

"Jesus, Jerri."

I didn't know what she meant at all, of course. So I tried to tell her what was up.

"Listen. Jerri. I feel like aaSometimes, I feel like a trapped squirrel, okay? I'm a damn friendless squirrel nut that doesn't know how to do anything."

"Squirrel nut?" Jerri raised her eyebrows for a moment. Stared at me. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to say really," I told her.

"Can I help you, Felton?"

"I'm hungry."

"You wouldn't eat dinner."

"I know that."

Jerri stared at me, squinted, then let go of my arm.

"Go inside. I'll make you a big omelet, okay?"

"Okay." I opened the door to go in.

"You know I'm really trying," she said.

"Why?" I asked, stopping. "Why are you trying?" Why do honkies laugh? Why does Jerri need to try? Why can't I do anything well?

"You know I'm going to a therapist, Felton?" Jerri said.

"No."

"That's where I went on Friday. She's worried about you too."

Oh. Oh. "Who? Who's worried, Jerri?"

"My therapist."

"Your therapist?" My stomach dropped.

"Yes."

"Good. You need a therapist, Jerri." I didn't want a therapist. I've had a therapist. My therapist caused me to whisper Gus's name like he was my girlfriend when I was in fourth grade. My therapist made my heart attacks worse. I went inside and tried to slam the door, but it didn't really slam.