Gabe Johnson Takes Over by Geoff Herbach Page B

know—It’s just a draft!”
    â€œYou are just playing. You are a little kid,” I hissed.
    I turned and walked in back.
    Dante gave me the business. Squawked at me about pulling the wool over his eyes and crap like that. I calmed him down, told him it was just a draft. Dante’s a little explosive, I’ve figured out. Drama queen, right?
    No. We’re cool. We’re pals.
    What wasn’t cool is I totally offended Camille by calling her a kid. She’s so damn sensitive. When I came back out from talking to Dante, she was gone.
    â€œYou made your girlfriend cry,” Gore whispered.
    â€œShe’s not my girlfriend.”
    â€œOh,” Gore said.
    â€œCrap,” I said.
    Poor Camille didn’t even know the Janessa/Justin news and there I was insulting her, you know? Felt bad.
    â€œCan I help?” Gore asked.
    â€œWith what?”
    â€œPlan your concert so I can not get too mad about spending all my lemonade money on girls who have made my life a living hell forever,” Gore said.
    â€œOh. Well. I. Hm. Maybe?”
    Oh, that’s just what we need, the murderer helping out. That will attract the crowds!
    â€œOkay,” Gore said. She smiled at me. She has a pretty smile. She’s not an odd outsider sad sack because she’s hard on the eyes. She’s a sad sack because she threatened to murder kids.
    After my shift, I texted Camille that I was sorry. She texted, Whatever . Sorry!!!!!
    Call me later , she wrote.
    This is your first summer in town, right, Mr. Rodriguez?
    Yeah, Spunk River Days is one sick name, but that’s the river that goes into Minnekota Lake, so what are you going to do? All the high school kids make disgusting jokes about Spunk River Days.
    I’m sure you can imagine what they say.
    Always cracks me up when I think about a pioneer coming across the little river and saying, “We shall call this waterway Spunk!”

CHAPTER 11
    Grandpa and I jumped rope for a half hour in the afternoon. I was so sore from the day before, but I didn’t cry.
    That’s progress. Go team!
    Not pretty. I was downstairs lying on the floor of my room, scribbling some dumb poetry about food into my ideas notebook. ( I would kill for a soft bed of bread and a slice of ham spread across me. Crap like that.) I was listening to music, so I didn’t even hear her ring the doorbell or Grandpa let her in.
    I was shirtless. Camille came down the stairs and walked around the corner into my bedroom and I jumped, hit my head on the underside of my bed (a foldout couch), and then tried to roll under it so she wouldn’t see me. I got lodged under there pretty good. I haven’t had my shirt off in front of the opposite sex, you know…since Mom and the poundage. I sure didn’t want anyone seeing my business, okay?
    And no girl had ever been in my room! (I mean, other than Mom.) (Oh…and Doris.)
    It’s pretty gross. The room was a rec room for the family that built the place in the 70s. When Mom decided she needed an office a few years ago (probably for illicit Skyping purposes), down I went. It’s this shiny wood paneling and some rugs on the tile floor and this old foldout couch. (My bed was too small, so we didn’t move it. It was a little boy bed.) Other than the wood, the walls are pretty bare, except a poster of Grandpa in his bodybuilding prime (which I realize is a little weird because he’s pretty much naked) and a picture of me that Dad took while I played a trombone solo at the spring jazz concert. Me and my naked Grandpa. My room doesn’t exactly flatter, you know?
    I don’t know how she reacted. I was under the bed!
    â€œWhat are you doing, Gabe?” Camille asked.
    â€œLooking for…a sock. Socks. You scared me.”
    â€œDo you need help?” she asked.
    â€œNo. Could you leave for a second? I’m not decent, okay?”
    â€œYeah. Sure. Sorry. I should’ve knocked. I