Freshman
By Michael GerberHyperion Books
Copyright © 2007 Michael Gerber
All right reserved.ISBN: 9780786838516Chapter One
HART TOOK a lot of late-night walks over the next few months. His safety schools admitted Hart immediately, but he didn't want to go to any of those places. He wanted to go to Stutts, and Stutts was notorious for taking its time. Hart's interviewer, a pompous, flatulent attorney, told him that the Stutts experience began with waiting to see if you had gotten in. "Anything that excruciating," the interviewer said with a wan smile, "has got to build character."
Hart's midnight strolls yielded a surprising amount of entertainment: people strolling past picture windows buck-naked, classmates making out in lurching, steamed-up cars. Things got nutty late at night. So he wasn't too shocked when a big black limousine gave a short honk and pulled up beside him.
Hart turned off his headphones and prepared to give directions. A tinted window slid down, revealing a pudgy guy with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a toothpick in his mouth. He looked like the Buddha gone bad. "Hart Fox?"
"Yeah?"
"Lean down so I can look at you." The driver checked Hart against a blowup of his yearbook photo.
It was a terrible picture. Not only was Hart wearing his emergency glasses (he'd ripped a contact that morning), but there was a bright-red constellation of pimples sprayed across his forehead. And his hair looked like he'd combed it with an eggbeater. "Let me guess: you're scheduling retakes."
"They told me you liked to talk nonsense," the driver said, "but you can quit, 'cause I ain't listenin'." He unlocked the doors. "Get in."
Stranger danger! Hart's hindbrain flashed, and he found himself on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, Hart was naturally friendly, almost pathologically so. On the other, he firmly believed that things like serial killers, cannibalism, and human sacrifice were more common than everybody supposed. Resigned to become a statistic, he got in; he'd been trained to respect his elders, and like all ambitious people, Hart had a strong attraction to limousines.
"Who told you I liked to talk nonsense?" When the driver didn't answer, Hart checked out the bar compartment. "Where's the booze?"
"Up here with me," the driver said. "You're underage."
"I thought limousines were like international waters or something." The only answer that came was the sound of the driver taking a swig.
As they drove, Hart got more and more anxious. Not only was he in a car driven by a complete stranger, but that stranger wouldn't answer any of his questions! And was drinking. And wouldn't give him any!
"This is outrageous," Hart said indignantly. "I would like, in fact I demand, a beer."
"No beer up here. Just hard stuff. And you're not getting any."
"It's totally illogical that I can fight and even die for my country, but some creep who picks me up in a limo, can't give me a-"
"Kid: shut up," the driver explained.
"But in Europe-"
"I'm not listening. Shut up and go to sleep."
Hart saw his point. It was 1:30 in the morning, and he was sleepy. He got sleepy every time he was anxious-how was that for an idiotic evolutionary mechanism? To zonk out whenever the saber-toothed tigers showed up? True to his ancestors, Hart drifted off. Sometime later, from far, far away, Hart heard a voice say: "Wake up, kid. We're almost there."
Hart shifted position, a spindle of drool dropping from his lip.
"Hey! Don't you drool on my upholstery!" The driver shook his head bitterly. "You're annoying even when you're asleep."
Hart sat up. "I wasn't sleeping. I was just resting my eyes," he mumbled, sitting up. No one in Hart's family ever admitted falling asleep. Farting, sure-masturbation, even. But falling asleep, never. It was a point of honor.
Hart groggily rubbed the condensation off his window. It was still pitch-black, and a heavy snow had begun to fall. Great, Hart thought. Now it'll be easy to hide my body. Why had he gotten into the car? Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, Hart repeated his silent mantra. What had he been thinking? Self-laceration was also a Fox family tradition-winners don't avoid criticism, they beat everyone else to it. This strategy took constant vigilance ... and still he screwed things up. Hart looked down at his jeans. At least he didn't have morning wood; the Erection Fairy was still asleep. Good. It would suck to die with a boner.
Hart miserably scanned the predawn murk for other cars, but all he saw was an armadillo crouched on the shoulder of the road. Hart conjured up a whole story involving a pet armadillo trying to find its way from Indiana to Texas-with a winning lottery ticket in its mouth, and just forty-eight hours to cash it-when he blinked and saw that it was just a curled scrap of blown-out tire. Too bad, Hart thought. He liked the armadillo better.
This happened all the time; faulty vision and a strong imagination conspired to keep Hart trapped in a very different, often alarming world. It always-or almost always-resolved into boring normalcy after a squint, but this constant double-taking kept Hart willing to accept the bizarre, and go along with it, too. Like getting into mysterious limos, for example.
As a hawk attempted to land on the hood of the car (no, wait, it was just a plastic bag) they turned off the expressway and into a bleak, urban neighborhood. Hart smelled the stench of death in the air, not realizing that Gary, Indiana, always smells like that.
Hart racked his brain for who might want to kill him. Nobody came to mind; with all the AP-level classes and college-attracting extracurriculars, there simply wasn't much time to make enemies. Abduction/murder wasn't Doreen's style-much too "tacky," to use her favorite put-down. Weird Abigail had a crush on him, and she'd be just the kind to go all Fatal Attraction without them ever having dated. But Hart knew her parents had told her to stop playing "Magic" for money, so it was highly doubtful she could've scraped together the cash for a hit man and a limousine.
The only real possibility was Steve of Meed, the guy who sold pot under the football bleachers during lunch. Steve of Meed had hated Hart ever since Hart had made a crack about his shirt in front of some girls. Now that he was about to pay for the joke with his life, Hart was bitter; it wasn't his fault that Led Zeppelin was a cliche. Steve of Meed-the guy too baked to wear shoes with laces-was a drug lord. You do learn something new every day, Hart concluded glumly. The trick is to keep it from killing you.
The limo turned at the next light, into an even more ruined part of town. Hart's money was on his head, hands, and torso being dumped in three separate locations, to delay identification. There'd be one piece in Lake Michigan, one in a vacant lot somewhere, and one back home (in his locker maybe?), to serve as a warning to others. Hart knew how it was done; he'd seen the cop shows.
They slowed and cruised down a side street. This is it, Hart thought, lying back on the seat and placing the sole of his sneaker on the window, getting ready to break it out. Then he saw the sign:
DARLING CONSTRUCTION WELCOMES YOU! THE REV. DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB OPENING 2008-APPLICATIONS BEING ACCEPTED WE HAVE A DREAM ... THE FINEST GOLF COURSE IN AMERICA
Relief poured over Hart like a sponge bath from God. The car ride suddenly made sense. It was something about the Darlings' stupid lawn.
This golf course was the latest scheme of Burlington Darling, a prominent local businessman/asshole. Cutting his absurdly huge lawn had been Hart's main source of income throughout high school. Dealing with Mr. Darling was annoying, but at least Hart wouldn't die. He might want to, but he wouldn't.
Hart wondered what Mr. Darling needed to talk with him about at three in the morning. It could be anything; Mr. Darling had a thing about his lawn like Quasimodo had a thing about bells. Every blade in the rolling two acres had to be perfect. Hart always got an analysis of the previous week's job, short, oddly emotional notes saying things like, "Edging is part of the job!" or "Loose matter must be swept!" Every quarter, Mr. Darling issued a typed report with a letter grade. Hart pulled straight A's at school, but could barely manage a C- on Mr. Darling's lawn.
The limo pulled up to a sentry station at the entrance to the building site. The driver rolled down his window.
"Morning, Angelo. Where's Stones at?"
"He's on the front nine," a man in a policelike uniform said, not moving his eyes from a mini-TV in front of him.
The driver's response was blotted out by a far-off explosion. Every so often, there were flashes, followed by echoing booms, as another building came down. As the limo jostled over gravel and bits of concrete, Hart looked around, grateful to be alive. Some of the buildings were floodlit, the ones next on the list to be imploded. Buildings interested him; maybe he would be an architect. That seemed like a good job. But the best job was living off the fat of your ancestors, like Mr. Darling did.
The Darlings were one of the city's oldest families, and certainly the richest. The great-great grandfather-"who," Mr. Darling was always quick to point out, "was an immigrant"-had founded Daily Money, a huge financial newspaper with editions all over the world. The Darlings had since diversified in a million different directions, including building top-of-the-line golf courses. Now, out of boredom more than anything else, Mr. Darling was running for governor.
Hart's dad had been especially keen on Hart cutting Mr. Darling's lawn. "Money is like an STD," Dr. Fox had told his son. "Get close enough to somebody who's got it, and chances are good you'll get it, too."
But three years later, all Hart had to show for his troubles was $2,112 in the bank, and golden memories of Trip Darling and his stupid friends-the other seniors at Farnsworth who joined Trip at the lowest end of the bell curve-throwing piss balloons at him whenever he got close enough to the mansion.
At least the end was in sight; the Darlings would look a lot less annoying from a dorm room at Stutts ... if he got in. Mr. Darling himself had studied there. Not very diligently, judging by the grammar in his notes-but then again, he hadn't needed to. Back in those days, Stutts was a private club for the right sort of person.
Now, after years of tumult followed by decades of self-congratulation, Stutts was a meritocracy. No matter how poor you were, or where you lived, you could get in. And a Stutts degree was a ticket to any career one desired-even President of the United States. Hell, especially President. Hart had wanted to go there ever since he was twelve: sleeping over at a friend's house, he'd seen a cheesy teen sex comedy called Party Dorm that had been set there. Young Hart had decided: wherever America's best minds gather together to drill holes into the girls' shower with impunity, that was the place for him.
Stutts played a role in this golf course, too. The mayor and Mr. Darling had roomed together there, twenty-five years ago, so the Darling Company won a no-bid contract to turn a swath of public housing into an eighteen-hole masterpiece. In a concession to the city's black leaders, the course was going to be named after Martin Luther King, Jr. Then, the city's Latino leaders started complaining, so the mayor announced that the clubhouse would have a restaurant named Cesar's 19th Hole, after Cesar Chavez. These concessions made the blacks and Latinos even angrier. The mayor was genuinely puzzled-both his Mexican landscaper and his Jamaican nanny had been nothing but smiles when he had mentioned the project. So he chalked it up to a few bad apples.
"Unlike the so-called 'public housing' it is replacing," the mayor had announced, "this club will be open to all-provided they can afford it, of course. That's the American way, and any class warriors drunk on sour grapes should take that up with the Constitution, not with me."
Sensing an opportunity for a time-consuming, utterly vacant gesture, the opposition started a petition. Mr. Ashram brought it into history class, hoping to rekindle the spirit of the Sixties without the benefit of pot, free love, or Beatles records. After appeals to democracy and equality elicted yawns, he offered his students one point of extra credit for every ten signatures. This spoke to them: good grades led to good colleges, which led to good jobs and good bank accounts. Within days, a beaming Mr. Ashram delivered a thick stack of signatures to the campaign, never noticing that "Terry Dactil," "J.V. Futbal," "Hugh G. Rection," and all the others weren't enrolled at Farnsworth.
Hart didn't participate in the scam; he didn't need the extra credit. Besides, after all that lawn-cutting, he felt a certain connection with the Darlings. He and Trip Darling-Mr. Darling's son, Burlington Barington Darling III, V-were friends. Well, no, they weren't-friends don't throw piss balloons at you-but they were on the lacrosse team together.
But back to the petition: eventually Mr. Darling decided that there'd been quite enough free speech around here, thank you, and wheeled out the big gun. The op-ed page of Daily Money bellowed incessantly, broadcasting the standoff nationwide. Finally, Mr. Darling himself had written an editorial (via ghostwriter, of course): "Prejudice against the wealthy is the new racism ... Dr. King, that venture capitalist of the human spirit, knew better. If he were alive today, Martin Luther King would be the first one to reserve a tee time. And if he were to birdie our picturesque ninth hole, he would most certainly cry out, 'Three at last, three at last, thank God almighty, I shot a three at last!'"
The limo turned a corner, and Hart saw it, a puddle of glorious July purchased from miserly February. He'd seen similar things many times at the Darlings' mansion-that's why they needed him to cut the lawn year round. But seeing it here, in the middle of a bomb zone, took Hart's breath away.
In the middle of an impossibly green, brightly lit fairway, a short-sleeved Mr. Darling was teeing up golf balls and whacking them into the dark. Enormous heaters blew hot air on the fresh sod, keeping the snow at bay. Solar-spectrum floodlights carved a corridor of afternoon out of the eggplant-colored sky. On either side, slabs of crumbling buildings shook and fell, exhaling death rattles of dust. But even that couldn't penetrate the fairway, an oasis protected by magic.
"Too much money drives you crazy," the driver grumbled. He turned to Hart. "Come back after you're done and I'll take you home. If you behave."
Hart opened the door and got out. He was so mesmerized by the fairway that he forgot his jacket-then a blast of cold air reminded him it wasn't eternal summer for everybody.
Hart's foot crunched over snow, then sank into grass, and the temperature jumped fifty degrees. Twenty feet away, Mr. Darling continued to swing; next to him, a butler in formal attire held a silver champagne bucket full of golf balls. After every shot, the butler expressed his admiration.
"Nicely struck, sir," the butler said in an English accent (even though he was from Cleveland).
"Thank you, Galbraith. I made it an offer it couldn't refuse," Mr. Darling said, his last word obscured by a nearby blast. Some rubble danced into the fairway, and Mr. Darling gave it a dirty look.
The teenager got within ten feet of the mogul and stopped. No one had acknowledged Hart yet, so he considered it best to wait silently. He had never actually seen Mr. Darling this close before-Mrs. Darling's personal assistant usually left an envelope with seventy-five dollars (and the critique) in the lawn shed.
Continues...
Excerpted from Freshmanby Michael Gerber Copyright © 2007 by Michael Gerber. Excerpted by permission.
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