26
Boys on Film

The next morning, Ira is waiting for me in front of school. Superstressed. Like pre-heart-attack stressed. I’d completely forgotten about this supposedly important thing he needs to tell me.

“Why haven’t you been answering your cell, man?” he asks. The poor kid looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.

“I didn’t tell you? I’m grounded. Like, no-cell-phone-for-a-month grounded. I’ve been sent back to caveman times.” The truth is, I’ve kind of liked being off the grid. Bijou and I send notes to each other from the Gran Bwa, the secret exchange place that nobody but us knows about. Going down Flatbush Avenue adds, what, another seven minutes to my route to and from school, which is no big deal. And who else do I really want to hear from, anyway? Definitely not Anxious Ira.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you,” Ira says. “It’s important.”

“Listen, I do want to talk. I want to hear what you have to say, but can it wait? I’ve got three minutes to get to Price’s class. I’ve been late twice already this week, and he’s gonna freak on me if I’m late again.”

“It can’t wait!” Ira says, but I’m already halfway down the hall, toward my locker. I’ve got to dump off my backpack, and I should make it to my good buddy Mr. Price on time.

“It’s gonna have to!” I yell over my shoulder. “Meet me at lunch!”

Why does everybody feel the sudden need to talk to me this morning? I’ve got maybe ninety seconds to make it to class, and Rocky and Trevor are standing right in front of my locker.

“Hello and howdy, dudes,” I say, not really caring about the consequences of sassing off to these clowns anymore (Bijou gives me confidence, see?). “Would you kindly move out of the way for a second, so I can, you know, get into my locker?”

“Wow, Schrader, that was an all-time performance,” Trevor says, moving a crucial six inches so I can open my combination lock. Needless to say, I have no idea what the heck he’s talking about.

“Seriously,” Rocky chimes in. “Oscar-worthy. Only thing is, didn’t you steal that line from us? That’s illegal, that’s, what do you call it—”

“Plagiarism,” Trevor says. “Straight-up theft.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Trevor says. “But make sure our names don’t get mentioned. If this comes back to us, you will regret it, believe me.”

“Dude,” Rocky says, patting Trevor on the back. “Stop stressing. He’s the one who said it, and he said it on video. Forget the plagiarism thing. Schrader here will get sole writing credit. And he deserves it. After all, it’s a friggin’ masterpiece.”

They cackle their way down the hall, not bothering to explain. What video? What “masterpiece”? What is going on?!

I see a bit of white sticking out of my locker vent, and right away I know it’s another note. My blood freezes as I brace for what’s inside. It’s got to be Rocky and Trevor, right? There’s got to be some connection between this supposed “performance” and the note, but what is it? I tear open the envelope and find this:

Now everybody knows how you really feel about that stupid girl. And believe me, she is stupid. Wait till you see what happens next.

Enjoy your day!

I head straight for English, knowing I’ll see Nomura there. I can only hope that he’s got a clue what Rocky and Trevor were talking about and how it relates to this note. What could the writer mean by how I “really feel”? Unlike Rocky and Trevor, I’m not into bragging about girls, and I don’t think I’ve ever copied any of their stupid sayings—seriously, plagiarize them? Publicly? That’d be social suicide.

As I make my way down the hall, it seems like everyone is looking at me. Seventh and eighth graders, fifth and sixth graders, even lower schoolers, all glance in my direction. But just as quickly, their eyes dart away, like I’m an exotic but disgusting animal at whom they can’t resist taking a guilty peek.

“Finally, you’re here,” I whisper to Nomura as he takes the seat to my left. “What is happening?”

“You … don’t want to know,” he says.

“Umm, yes, I do. Like, right now.” Nomura whips out his phone and goes to YouTube. “Oh no,” I say. “Is it bad?”

“It’s worse than bad.”

But before the video starts playing, Mr. Price stands up and clears his throat. “Mr. Nomura, kindly put the phone away. You and Mr. Schrader can watch all the videos you like after class, but this is my time.”