"Big gun," I said.

"Frederick, you're showing great leadership for this team. Thanks for bringing Reinstein in."

"Yes, sir," Cody said.

"Reinstein. First things first. Pull off your shoes and socks. Let's get your measurements."

I did what he said and then stood against a wall with a bunch of numbers on it.

"Yes, sir, just about what I figured," Coach Johnson said. "Six feet, one and one-quarter inches."

"What?" I shook my head. "Say that again?"

"Six feet, one and one-quarter inches," Coach Johnson repeated.

"I'm six-one?" I said. I couldn't believe it. "Are you kidding me?"

"That's right," Coach Johnson said. "You're an inch taller than Kennedy right now."

"Who?"

"Ken Johnson? My son? You ever hear of him? Ha ha ha."

"Yeah. Hah," I said. Ken glared at me. I smiled back, heart pounding. This time, my heart wasn't pounding because of conflict with Ken Johnson though. This time, it was pounding from non-squirrel-nut adrenaline. I had no idea I'd gotten so tall.

"Get on the scale, son."

I walked over and got on the scale. Coach Johnson kept moving things around, weight things, to put the scale in balance. He kept saying "Yup." Finally, the scale balanced. "Felton Reinstein," Coach Johnson said. "You weigh a hundred and sixty-eight pounds."

"Whoa," I said, startled. "Am I fat?"

"You're a beanpole, Reinstein," Ken Johnson said.

"I've gained like forty pounds," I said.

"Seems to me your puberty went steroidal, kid," Coach Johnson said. Both Ken and Cody giggled when Coach said puberty. "You've got no fat on you. None."

"No muscle either," said Ken.

"Well, some muscle," Coach Johnson said, "He's about as fast as you, Kennedy. But we can do better."

"Beanpole," Ken whispered.

"Jerk," Cody whispered, looking at Ken.

"We can do a lot better," Coach Johnson nodded.

"I grew seven inches and gained forty-three pounds since the beginning of gym last year," I said, thinking back to Coach Knautz measuring us right before our Ping-Pong unit started last fall.

"Reinstein, you've got a frame. You hit the weights, keep eating and growing, and you could be carrying two hundred easily by your senior season."

"Is it good to be so fat?" I asked.

"That's D-I sized," said Cody.

"Pfff. Yeah," said Ken Johnson.

"And with that speed?" said Coach Johnson. "You're telling me. D-IA."

"D-I?" I asked.

"Division I college athletics, my boy. You could get much bigger too. Two-hundred and twenty isn't out of the question. You might get taller, of course. When do you turn sixteen?"

"End of July," I said.

"My goodness, you're big," said Coach Johnson.

Ken Johnson, who was shorter than me but probably weighed over two hundred, just glowered. I didn't smile at him. I was lost in swirling thought, guilty, crazy thought: How did I grow so much? Am I driving Jerri crazy by eating everything? Maybe Jerri really needs my paper route money? I probably ate ten thousand pounds of food in the last year. Oh my God. We're running out of money, and that's why Jerri is so stressed out and has to go to a therapist and is crazy and calls me the f-bomber. I am eating Jerri and Andrew out of house and home! I ate that bagel! I ate an extra bagel! Oh, Jesus, I'm eating my family! Oh my God!

Coach Johnson talked, and Cody talked, and I spun out in my brain, and Ken Johnson shook his head, and then Cody motioned for me to follow him, which, thankfully, I did.

As we climbed the stairs to the weights, Cody said, "See, I thought you were big, Reinstein."

"I don't feel big, man."

"You gotta start carrying yourself like you're that big. Really, Reinstein. Nobody will ever mess with you again."

"Nobody messes with me now."

"Are you kidding me? Everybody does. I used to, and I don't mess with anybody because I think messing with people is dumb."

"Really? You messed with me?" Duh. I knew that. People messed with me all the time, and I hated them for it. That's why I spent an hour drawing a picture of Ken Johnson getting shot with bottle rockets two nights before.

"Carry yourself the way you really are, though, and it won't happen."

"How am I really?" God, I said stupid stuff. Pee-smelling Cody could've made shit of me, but he didn't.

"Here's the truth, Reinstein. Without ever setting foot on a football field, you're a Division I prospect. You've got unbelievable speed and a big frame. I'll never have any of what you've got."

"No. I'm a beanpole. You heard Ken."

"You're maybe a beanpole for an eighteen-year-old but not for a fifteen-year-old. You're just plain big for a fifteen-year-old."

"That makes sense."

"So carry yourself like a real athlete, and everyone will treat you that way. Okay? I'll let everybody know that you are a serious D-I prospect and then you just act that way."

"Uh huh," I said.

The voice in my head was still barking at me a little. It was going on about how I was eating Jerri and Andrew.

Then Cody stopped climbing and grabbed my arm, which shocked me out of my head completely.

"But you have to do something for me. You have to lift weights and practice all summer. You have to learn the playbook. If you do, we're going to be unstoppable come fall. That's what I want. I want to be unstoppable. We've got a huge line. Karpinski's sort of an ass, but he's an awesome receiver. I'll get him the ball. And you? With you, Reinstein? Nobody's gonna know what hit 'em. Jamie is going to be pissed to lose his spot, but you're our tailback, Reinstein. No doubt. Will you work hard?"

"Yeah," I nodded. I meant it.

"Thanks, man."

Cody looked deep into my eyes. It was sort of weird. I got a surge of adrenaline.

"I really appreciate it," he said.

I swallowed hard. I seriously meant it. I'd work my ass off.

We started climbing again toward the weight room, and I thought.

Who is Jamie? Oh, JamieaJamieaJamie Dernahonkyagrade older than meadentist's son. Have I ever said a word to him? Is he in the weight room now? What the hell would Gus think about this? He'd hate it. He'd make mean jokes. Should I tell him? He might not even respond to my email. I don't have to tell him anything. Why don't I hate it? Why do I want to do what Cody says? How did I get so damn big? When will I stop growing hair? What if I keep growing and growing and growing? What if I turn into King Kong? (Accidentally smash Ken Johnson?) What if I have to move to an island away from people because I crush them if I live among them?

We popped into the putrid-smelling weight room.

"When's your birthday, Reinstein? It's coming up, right?"

"July 31st."

"I'm going to throw you a party."

"Oh, thanks." I wasn't sure I liked the idea.

And then we lifted weights. Jamie Dern was up there, pumping it like the rest of the yahoos. At one point, after a couple poop-stinkers prodded him, he came over to where me and Cody were. He said he wouldn't give up his spot without a fight, but he didn't look mad or anything. Maybe he looked relieved? He actually shook my hand. And even though I could keep up, pumping weight and shouting gah and sweating and stinking and lifting because I'm apparently naturally strong, at the end, I was so exhausted that I could barely walk.

"That's what I'm talking about! That's what I'm talking about!" Cody shouted.

Sort of couldn't walk. Before we left, Cody made me go down to the gym. He handed me a basketball. He said, "Dunk it, Reinstein."

"I can't. I can barely touch the net."

"No. Dunk it."

I looked up. Half the honkies of the world were hanging over the weight room railing, staring down at me. I got a burst of adrenaline. I bounced the ball once, looked up at the rim, took about five steps, sprung up, and stuffed the ball through hard with my right hand.

"Holy effing crap!" I shouted.

"Woooo!" Cody shouted.

"Jesus, Rein Stone," someone shouted from above.

"You're big," Cody smiled.

Then my legs turned to rubber, and I almost fell over. Cody and I shuffled to his truck, and he drove me home. When he stopped in front of my house, he said, "This is going to be a great summer."

"Yeah," I smiled and then climbed down from the cab. "Thanks, man."

I went in through the garage door and avoided Andrew and Jerri, who were upstairs talking. I showered but couldn't get the smell out of my nose. Pee smell. I wondered if I would smell vaguely of pee for the rest of my life? A brawny pee-smeller with fur and muscles. I wondered if it was worth it. I figured it was. I already knew it was. Definitely. "Did you notice your brain didn't talk to itself the entire time you were lifting?" the voice in my head asked. That's great. Maybe I'll learn to enjoy the pee smell. I thought of my dad and the smell in the Volvo. I sniffed and crinkled my nose. Weird smell. Then I coated myself in deodorant. I literally put deodorant on my whole body. Slip slop. Smelled like flowers soaked in pee. Gross.

The doorbell rang.

Oh, no.

Aleah.

Andrew.

Jerri.

Me.

CHAPTER 16: WE COULD ONLY SEE EACH OTHER, SERIOUSLY.

Yeah, what a huge day.

From the bathroom where I'd just applied deodorant to my entire body, I heard Aleah and her father enter my house. I'd had no intention of "visiting" with them. Before. But wasn't I large? Wasn't I a Division I football prospect? I dunked a basketball. Holy Christ, I dunked a freaking basketball! I liked what Cody said too. I had to carry myself like an athlete. Jesus.

Before doing anything, I went into my bedroom to check email. Surely Gus would have written something hilarious by now. I opened it up. Nothing. Where the hell was Gus?

I wrote: beautiful piano girl from your bedroom is upstairs in my house.

From downstairs in my bedroom, I could hear Jerri play cheery, although I knew she was not.

"Oh, wonderful! Oh, lovely! What a beautiful dress!" She actually sounded kind of psycho (not surprising). I couldn't hear Andrew at all, which made me think he was acting strange, probably just staring unblinkingly at Aleah from behind his plastic nerd frames and thinking about how jealous he was of her.

If I let Andrew and Jerri represent the family, there was no way I could face Aleah Jennings, super genius, at her house for the rest of the summer.

Om shanti shanti shanti, I mumbled. Then I slapped myself in the face. No, no, no! Not freaky om shanti! I am big. I am huge. I am an athlete.

I stood straight. I broadened my shoulders. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on my bedroom door. I said, "I am really big." What was weird was this: I looked really big. For real. I looked like a young man you might believe is fast. I clenched my jaw and glared and looked sort of mean and ugly and, potentially, sort of smelly, which was accurate.

You know, I've never had any particular dislike for people who play sports. When I was little, I even watched football on TV. Green Bay Packers. I asked for a Brett Favre jersey once for my birthday (a request Jerri totally ignoreda"I believe she got me a Shel Silverstein poetry book that year). I've watched basketball too. I like big dunks. Sure, jocks smell funny. But animals don't smell good, and I never blamed them for that fact. It's nature. I never would've even cared that Ken Johnson played sports if he didn't knock me off my damn bike when he was the one who parked half sideways in the swimming pool parking lot. Yes, it pissed me off that jocks called Gus names and me names and that Karpinski broke Sam Peterson's finger in seventh grade (I'm sure on purpose, but he never got in trouble for it). None of that has to do with sports. I don't mind sports. I like sports. I can be good at sports.