Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach Page B

drumsticks of multiple kinds, his giant-ass book, and like one change of underpants in the back of the Hyundai that Monday, and off we all went.
    Andrew barely said a word the entire drive. Jerri kept looking back at him in the rearview mirror. I turned around a couple of times and saw him staring out the window. His face was a little red, which might have been a clue. But if I were heading off to a scary camp among perfect strangers, I’d be freaked, for sure. (Michigan technique camp drove me crazy, for instance.)
    Of course, Andrew is not me.
    At the bus station—this place is really like a strip mall with a giant garage attached in the back—Jerri said, “Call me every day, Andrew.”
    Andrew said, “Um. Maybe. I’ll probably call you every few days.”
    Then I said, “Have a good time, Andrew. I really hope it’s great.”
    Andrew stared at me through his nerd glasses for a moment. Then he dropped his suitcase and hugged me extremely hard around my stomach (because that’s how tall he is). He said, “Here I go, Felton. This is it.”
    I nodded at him. “Good luck, man.”
    He backed up a step and squinted.
    Then he turned and threw his suitcase into the luggage compartment of the fugly Greyhound bus. Then he climbed aboard the fugly Greyhound bus. Then he sat at the window and stared out at us as other sad and tired passengers piled on behind him. A hugely fat dude with a ponytail and a pink T-shirt that didn’t cover his belly completely cried like a baby next to Jerri. He’d just put his very tiny, extremely pierced girlfriend on the bus. Then the bus honked, backed up, and was gone.
    Jerri sort of sniffled as we climbed into her Hyundai.
    â€œGoing to miss the boy?” I asked.
    â€œMiss what? Your brother is a ghost.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œHe’s a complete mystery to me,” Jerri said.
    â€œNo kidding,” I nodded.
    The house felt extremely empty without him there. Jerri and I did what Jerri and I do: watch dumb TV together. Even though he didn’t talk to us, Andrew was action. He was always really busy: computer, whispering on the phone, writing crap down, digging around in his room while classical music blared. Sort of ridiculous…what would an eighth grader have to be so busy about?
    Actually, he’s always been that way. Andrew is no vegetable.
    If I’m not running, I am a vegetable. Jerri is a vegetable unless she’s with your dad.
    Thank God I got to start seriously running the same week Andrew left or I might seriously have missed him. (Plus I was porny-underpants-model bulky at that point and needed aerobic activity.)
    And, after all the rest, my hamstring man felt good and I went from light jogging to doing some pretty intense running over the next few days (800s and 400s at the college track). I mean, really, the hammy man was gone. I could run hard without feeling any pain, which was a huge, huge, huge relief. I began to meet up with Cody and Karpinski to catch passes—I hadn’t cancelled Michigan, so I sort of thought I should get ready for it (which caused palpitations in my squirrel heart).
    And, things were good…
    â€¢ • •
    Somebody is pounding on my door.

August 16th, 3:34 a.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part XII (Hotel)
    I’ve been officially warned by the hotel: No Exercising In The Halls. Okay! How did they know it was me? Video?
    I am sort of stressed out, Aleah…
    Journal it!
    Where was I? Here.
    The first real indication that seriously weird stuff was afoot with Andrew came a week after he left.
    I spent that cloudy afternoon at the track running ten sets of 400s and playing catch with Cody and Karpinski on the infield. (Karpinski was late because he’d been pulled over by the cops for shooting popcorn seeds out of a straw at kids on Main Street. Nice, huh?) It was a good time. I felt seriously good. Catching a ball is like breathing to me,