Losers by Matthue Roth Page A

T-3400 power generators and in greasing assembly-line conveyor belts to run smoother. Screams came out. It took me a second to recognize those screams as the girls’ soccer team, that slightly annoyed but mostly flirty screaming that they did just to get attention.
    The fire clouds were dying. People stood around, lightly applauding.
    What was I doing here? Among the popular kids, among these fifteen-year-olds who dress up like thirty-year-olds trying to look barely legal? These were the popular kids. These were the kind of kids I’d gotten teased by in elementary school, then ignored by in middle school. I remembered being relieved when the ignoring started. Why was I now trying my hand at climbing that stupid social ladder? Why was I having to smile and endure those girls who made girlish synonymous with helpless? I tried to think about what MARGIE would say if she was here, and failed.
    God, my realizations were really hitting tonight, weren’t they? Bullseye after bullseye. Devin saw my look of exasperation, andshe rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s cool that Crash and his posse are so into spectacle, but do those girls have to act so five-years-old every time they blow something up?”
    At that moment, a guy in a bright orange federal prisoner’s uniform and a Che Guevara cap, eyes as big and hungry as a wolf’s, with a face that could only be described as crazy-looking, zoomed past. He threw his hands on my shoulders and pogo-jumped way over my head, his face a few inches from Devin’s. He swung on my shoulders. “Hey, Devin, man,” he said in a wild voice that befitted the rest of him. “Did you like the show?”
    â€œYeah, gorgeous, Crash. It was beautiful.”
    â€œNow that was real American-made pyrotechnics. Rita designed the detonators out of Radio Shack toaster ovens, and McNeff the crime dog hooked us up with some juicy transistors.” He mopped a trickle of sweat—oil?—off his brow. He suddenly glanced down, right into my eyes, and gave an approving pat on my back. “Hey, dude. Are you enjoying the festivities?”
    It had been so long since it was my turn to speak that I almost forgot to do it. “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” I piped up at last. “It was awes—”
    â€œBy the way, thanks for inviting your friend,” said Devin. “We’re all totally into Jupiter. He’s a few notches up from the usual hackers.”
    â€œOh, um, definitely.” Crash, still perched atop me, nodded approvingly.
    â€œAre you gonna get some of your peons to clean that up? I have a three thousand dollar deposit on this place…”
    â€œAlready done, my good lady.” He climbed off my shoulders, gave a salute, and scampered off.
    Now that this Crash kid was gone, Devin turned her attention back to me.
    â€œHeh heh.” I gave a little nervous laugh. I was sure the game was up now.
    â€œYeah, I know. He’s kind of a dork, isn’t he? But it takes all types to make the world go round.” She looked around the place like a monarch surveying her kingdom. Some of the soccer team girls were just now coming down from their spaz-outs, and a bunch of guys in sports-team jackets were calming them down, giving them neck rubs. “After all,” she noted, “nothing sets off jock love like a nerd attack. And, by the way, you utterly aren’t from around here. I’ve been listening for it in your voice.”
    Panic. Sheer, total panic.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
    â€œYou think I’m crazy? Look, I’m from East Falls. Which is practically the capital for stuck-up, prissy princesses who are stereotypes of stereotypes of themselves. I grew up speaking half like a movie character and half like I was born in England. Then, in fifth grade, I started taking swimming lessons downtown. Olympic-size pool, taught by a former underwater stunt double from